Naked Momentum

A Poem

First through the light, skull-shaped agony, but the softness of flowers, dimpled petals rose and hyacinth

slid through three feet of snow, in April, my gauge is off, don’t know how to measure relatives

anymore, but the momentum belongs, there’s the hated travel carrying the back as far as it

will go, or at least to work and home, such things, such melodrama, script altering every ten seconds

or so it was written up in the programme, the thrusting feel of words hitting the throat of someone

else while you mouth along to the actions, to the deadening heartbeat of the moment that follows

but you’re in your flux, you’ve been picked up by your emotional resilience, flipped into shadow

by your neck, the groans of other standing graves pulls you into this ditch and that window

never saluting the wicked wind of the north, scooping wet snow into the open car, the energy of emergency

soaking you through the electric blanket, shocks your face into showing the naked isolation of crash

of creative vicissitudes, the chronic manipulations deserting your last stand, turning your outrage into poetry.

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