Change occurs when old men lift their hats and
snow falling on snow stops looking like itself and
I feel my dirt is more in the dirt which reminded me that
change occurs when I am a road and you
are the rails – several men lie across your tracks,
sleepers, they call them.
I wake to find myself a shard
sticking out of apples, again,
a row of obvious symbolism
I wake and find myself all your postcards
and the less exciting attraction – the place
where you took that photo, only minus
the camera, and the flash, and you.
I am an abstraction of breathing.
I am all the lists crossed out, on
paintings of before. You write, and
change occurred this week, your voice
was not snow on snow. Your message
was only to tell me, now,
that I spend far more time dead than alive.