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Winter

 Waning gibbous winter heart folded in grum perpetuation of wading on, a poem. Winter performs easily in the death this week in slightly large letters like almost happening now. The casuistry implied in just thinking winter happens, at least a word for that occurs. And now you feel down because crunchy snow or some poorly lit thinning of late season impediments to docility. The same must be right or what can time really do? A bolt of language when someone dies amidst gibbous waning moon like light failing lightness. Where will the tokens be in dark human leaning toward or against? Poetry's specious arguments fail language in this light, the untold smacking cold and finished and finished. You still hear a voice.


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