March 6, 2011

Grace Cavalieri


         Take Snow In My Arms

First there was the
Powdered sugar
Covering all thoughts
Like a winter storm in the ghetto,
Then–the weight of the trees
Around the house,
Roots entangling
Growing through the chairs,
Wood conspiring to connect
To keep them there,
Finally it was the crooked
Hands that matched just right
The loose door knob and twisted key
Inside the burnished lock within the frame,
At last, it was their sleep intertwined
As if were planned that way
As if it had somewhere to go.

from Rattle #21, Summer 2004

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