Absence defines. The negative space of composition can be.

Even your hand when it can’t catch, still touches. Song that is wanted is still song.

Things can be counted some of the time, such as ideas or times; time, uneven, hardly pinpointable in spite of the calendar consuming the entire kitchen wall.

Time, devouring moth wings gathering winter.

There will be more determinations of moving angles; protractors set against the shrinking sky.

Early winter light on display. Its intensity farther away; the game questioned as fair or foul play.

The panda cub rolls itself down new snow hills and does not appear to be lonely in this instance, at least.

It is possible to live inside complexities that no one, (if) aside from you (if  being doubtful by its very nature) will understand.

There will be more agenda items to cover, examine, sign off on. Ink is still preferable most of the time, but for how long—no one can say.

One wants elucidation not murkiness, but the will, itself, can be unkind.

When things grow back more robustly, I’ll send notification to effective parties, so we can add up the math, the meters of snow.

Calculate the collective courage of all involved, who traveled unchartered distances outside themselves to lie down, no longer self-betrayed.

Expect an important announcement, something perhaps unequivocal. Ha-ha.

The orchestrated dance, interpretive and fluid, expands the stage built for dreamers.

Conceptual art at its absolute best, how strange—what we are—or might explain.

How long until the hour undoes itself, the appointment evaporates into the waiting room—all the keys go missing from the rotting piano, the dog stops chasing its tail?

Sometimes one has to dig out savagely, bare-handed, from elaborate underground labyrinths—their own languishing.

And then it feels okay to sleep, finally—to sleep for countless days and wake up alive.

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2 Responses to MEASURING WINTER /z

  1. Myke Todd says:

    Riffing MEASURING WINTER /z (by Krysia Jopek)

    Famous Last Words

    As the Maple mulls false tread, on the slide,
    we reach for hand rails, unseen, yet implied.
    Would that we all, a reprieve be granted, as
    rain on terrain leaves our silt fence slanted;
    as our calibrated comings and goings coincide.

    Truth be told, I would be better off curbside.
    It appears desired safe haven has been denied.
    Shaken roots succumb to pressure (avalanches.)
    Rocks on a roll take a toll on fallen branches.
    So much for “Let your conscience be your guide.”

    Longing for a time I felt stranded, dock side,
    fending for myself, like a forgotten war bride.
    The hinges were rusted and frozen on the gate,
    giving cause to my pause, to hurry up and wait.
    Now the water has the last word in a flood tide.

    Michael Todd (2020)

  2. Tinto Lovepoem says:


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