this winter parabola 06

vi.

the hup-hup-hup of helicopters red-shifting, i turning catch the last hard edge
gleam/shimmer/vanish . . . insulated, my coat padded with the stuffing of countless

small toys, enough winters to remember for all. i cut threads with my teeth.
incisor, forceps: precision of my fixative moment, liquid-slow, a volume

equation. pocket-change of an hundred countries: the incidentals of season. but
here at the peak i am no longer bothered by my own dead-weight intricacies.

nothing doing, nothing doing, he's a shoe-in, honey-pie--brushed, burnished,
glossy. i self-indulge--& what's left, piping, hot-cross--a self-revising chain. long-

drawn chevron, wool in 16 colors pointing back, back, directionless wraparound
making time knit the self, internal, bundled up against this last antiatmosphere.