No Chronologer

We’d leapt, then—joined a risk. We thought this winter
could act a clean edge to nick
our sass and lax. (Sequestered, we sharpen our angles
on one another.) Haul of
boxes, maps, spit-shine & crease—but scratching already
at the door of it a small blizzard
that we ignored, growing. We have ourselves for warmth
and some lamps for reading. Fluid drawn,
transferred, dispersed. Organic heat of the drink taken neat: You
were in the kitchen when the first
flake clung to the pane. The alchemy of electric doesn’t lie:
at the center of each is the germ, fleck
of glass. You know it’s a poor conductor. Even calm in the drift
each falling knows its keen
shard of window punched-through, or of a mirror dropped
at night, and the waiting after.

— Lauren Caldwell

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Filed under Poetry, Vol 1 Issue 1

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