Wednesday, December 19, 2018


Deep and crisp and even—now that's 
the kind of snow for me. 
Though I think maybe I'd
also add "laughing a little," most likely
at me while I'm trudging along talking,

perhaps to my mom
on a hands-free call, reciting 
a dull litany of groceries needed 
for the holiday dinner's infamous
broccoli cheese casserole 

instead of discussing the refugees
who's pictures she'd just seen,
crouching near a chain-link 
fence at the border and eating 
a can of beans for dinner—or 

the Christmas Eve truce of 1914
and the mirth that oozed up 
from the foxholes of Belgium
when soldiers gin-anointed voice boxes
were the only things exploding—or even

entertaining such a miracle's inverse:
the ludicrousness of the ineluctable light
of our shared universal consciousness 
getting momentarily stuck in the throat 
of a disconsolate baby. Though perhaps 

the snow laughs because it suspects
I'm not really on a phone call at all,
but just careening down the street
and mumbling out-loud to myself about
the exact same things.