I SEE AGAIN THAT NIGHT

so quick, so dead: 

the wrinkled smiling eyes of private pathos,

his hand upon the door and then

the intermingling incongruent blur

of face and face and face again.

As white moon flecked the snow about the town

the sick stomach of my soul prefigured fate,

but soul is a long way down.

Who stopped to think of god that night

or seemed to feel the draft within the dark red warmth

when, from the snow and brittle stars without,
Doom strode in?

 -public domain -