The plows are whining and lumbering through the night,
heavy with snow and so much I can't recall the angels
I might have made with you, but didn't. Those plows, god,
those plows--they just won't stop whining:
_______a shrill circuit of unnecessary howling.
The snow keeps falling, those plows keep keening and
still this anger; it builds and builds. It is a white beast,
cold or hot, a fever I am white with.
That sometimes I could gladly smash the window,
watch the jagged panes slice down 26 floors, severing
your nagging whine, and plow's, bisecting angels that were
made or not made, to be sheathed in snow with all the finality
_______of a fist in the mouth poised to scream.
I wish I had only dreamed or nightmared these: snow, plows,
the whining endlessness of it all. So as not to deny myself this
anger, this Stockholm Syndrome, I wrote this poem, stashed it
in the freezer and like a Bluebeard gave the stern warning:
_______do not open till Last Thaw.
But you too have your own poem of hot summers, and as yours
began to begin, mine to end. How you waited for such a crossing
of paths, a grand alignment of opposites.
Did you wait for the snowball to melt before pulling it apart
with your little hands? How you'd waited for everything else,
did you wait for this? Expecting harmony at last, weren't you
surprised to find this poem's true sodden beginning:
_______Spring is here; are we any better for it?
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