Thursday, March 24, 2016

The Distance Between

Does indifference have a temperature?
It is the tail end of the March wind

which blows its long polar thrusts across
the ice which belches and breaks so slowly,

so grudgingly. We're in the car sleeping in the sun
while the seagulls wheel over shore in the sunspots,

our poetry books having slipped from our laps,
all their pretty philosophical bows tied neatly

into kite tails which dip and volley as we please
to our inhale and exhalations passing comfortably

between us. An otter breaks from the bridge of black water,
through ice, into air. I open an eye. Try to see. Glare.

No one understands another's world, the elements of order.
Sky. Car. Infinite knuckle of ice cold water.

The poems are as bereft of heat as March can be
if the books remain closed.