Sun through sleet
coppers a bare
and brittle limb
so underneath
I see it, the sudden
pavement, first
naked corner, exactly
where we stood
yesterday in our boots
and beside it
emerge thawed
clumps of edging sod.
We gather fingers
into a pulse knot
and join the compact
earth, loosening
by dint of what
else, sun. I grab at
your hand, swinging
free, clamor after
moment’s, what can
it be called except
amen. Heart-blip stuck
tipping my finger
on the keys, speeding
memory of yesterday out
the window I’m
pushing barely open
eyes through
and swollen
fingers beating
this down, crowding
the sod with us.
The sleet with us.
The sidewalk, elder
bugs dead stuck
to the screen, me
on me, on you.
The world we
All our fingers.
That world.

Christopher Martin (© 2013)