This winter has been good for the grave diggers.
Nostalgia begins from cinema-made memories.
When we are old, we will have the certainty of our age
and the absence of clarity
that will lend it all a divine finality.
Dig a hole and fill the hole.
Be a hole and see a hole.
Spring peeps sing on frozen branches.
Ice storms blow in from the West:
Kansas is buried. Iowa is bogged down.
Violence is percolating in the wealthy cul du sacs of Colorado Springs.
Messiahs wander the high plains of Utah
searching for heaven and easy women,
praying for spread eagle legs of fire and of smoke.
Here in the valley, we wait for Spring.
The city is gray and the lights burn bright
as the mountains in the east are leveled
one foot at a time in the name of neon gods
whose names we never bothered to learn.