to pretend I’m some cold genius
just out of the Arctic, poetry stuffed in my parka’s pockets.
It fell out on the ice;
my mother’s osseous dice. Wait, my flight!
I couldn’t catch it.
Yet, now I am seated. What time zone please?
I am tired of the terrestrial.
The stewardess drolls, “Fasten your seatbelt.”
I’m not there. It takes off.
Wake now; nightgown dusted with frost.
It melts on me like a frightening dream.
Yes, cold. No, a genius I am not.
I realize, I am walking inside out
The moon changes faces but it doesn’t hide it