My photo
Poet, Artist and co-owner of Lasting Images Photography

Wednesday, March 19, 2014


Living at sea level
ice is foreign,
Avalanches don't come
from hulking mountains
that dissolve in a blur of whiteness,
blankness, blindness,
empty cold.
Tears don't freeze,
become snowflakes on lashes.
Shoulders don't sink
into endless, powdery pillows,
too tired to move, roped
to oblivion. Lost

But avalanches come,
even in the swelter of summer.
Warm waves
crash down as suddenly as snow,
swallow up breath in salty gasps,
thrashing rasps. clenched teeth,
flailing in space. Papery lids fold
over dead iris eyes,
a shutter, Click.

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