winter is an interstice in a tight knit goose feather bodice
wrought by Solstice’s fey thread
and upholstered with almanac bound Sagittarius stars;
seeing the queen Cold’s beaux dice her ice, with a snowflake guillotine no less, made winter less wintery
and more of an interstice of black,
of conscious dark matter with inscrutable, yet palpable thoughts.
What does winter that is not winter think about us?
What does space think about the earth at zenith flax of noon, when it is also not blond noon in so many other places on earth?
What is sentient space’s concept of time if space is nowhere in particular?
Can rice paddies in cold blooded snow knit the zodiac’s moon chart under
karat gold rainbows if they are in the forest where?
The oddest most deft thing happens
Old an’ moist,
the deafening noise is
so liberal it’s leftwing; silvering of sounds
so syrupy and lush, but there’s
nobody left to hear them.