Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Too Scared To Move

You remember the feel of the lash
well enough not to question
where Winter has gone.

He's off in Europe,
I understand,
probably after
Belgian beer and Russian vodka,
Ukrainian women,
and you're not dumb
enough to cheer
his departure,
he'd hear about it
but you are
almost nostalgic
for what he
put you through.

You just wait quietly now
for the sound of his heavy
footfalls on the porch
and the fury of his voice,
naming you.

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