We live at the bottom of a sea of snowflakes.
They fall ruled by a mathematics
no one can resolve. When my brother
The dawn's yarn
knits itself into an evening sky. (Flowers are snowflakes
If I empty the wallet of my memory, evoke the mathematics
of emotion, scrape the excess mineral
as he was, soldering the radio together. The smoke, the mineral
encrusting the hot iron, the pure snow
of sparrows, mathematics
of prayer, accumulation of snowflakes
night walks like a brother
up from the bus stop and pauses in an urn
It's the winter we learn to breathe mineral,
every breath is a breath earned;
not certain whether I'll see this brother
again this or any other season.
Happy Holidays from the Daily Palette!
The Daily Palette Vintage--featuring Iowa Writes
Rustin Larson is the author of Crazy Star (Loess Hills Books, 2005) and The Wine-Dark House (Blue Light Press, 2009). He hosts the radio talk show "Irving Toast, Poetry Ghost" on http://kruufm.com.
This page was originally published on January 03, 2011.
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