Although It’s Cold Out

Worries scurry in and out, around, about:

money, aging, illness, sex – a roundelay

of arabesques in chaos in a sort of random sway

which, if you saw the shape of it,

you might find wasn’t random after all.

Even now you think you sense a pretty cataract –

a glinting waterfall – of shimmering exasperation –

glimmering anxiety – yearning urgently for form

and finding it. Although it’s cold out you’re not

minding it. In here you’re warm. Your shame,

despair and emptiness prepare the way for beauty.

Perhaps that is their duty.







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