G - Home Year

home year

Powder snow raked into drifts,
and sleeping at blue doors;
there were tiny circulations
held the fine white snow from water.

And wet flumes of ice, begging to choke,
clogged the sagging gutters,
Traded too much of their thick formation,
and dropped and drenched the powdered shutters.

Like oil over water you never dared to dip,
but even pushing hard it was frictionless like ice
and your fingers, your fingerprints push in the snow
the exact place you stand.

There was good clear ice outside the tiles
from your front door to the pavement,
but sighing brown thaw-water that refused to reform,
the pavement burst association

onto paths from buildings better forgotten,
strewed the grass with your bright old clothes
where I slid past, warm inside my own,
left your home humming red in the snow.

You say well likely dawn today is
never to be repeatedly. And standing on bridge west,
you hear say
it is cold and go inside. Well

all appears to be ice entirely.
Just paper for meat, tickets and kisses.
The market is driven in divers directions.
Missing the part that brims and

runs like meltwater:
off your roof and further down,
from the edges of the gutters to the
shutters of your house.