Out of Room

Off and out and away into white it all flew.
As you once said, we were but breath
left behind here after everything we knew
as pleasure had gone cold hard as death.
Who was to have done so first, me or you?

Hiding in shadows of shivering waste
— as you once showed, guilt’s go-to mask
for hiding out in — in each direction faced
with questions children learned not to ask
left unwritten so as not to get unerased.

Those lumps you see are cars. There’s no more room
to move the snow to. As you once promised,
eventually it will melt when warm times come
around again. Not today. Our air’s as iced
as the blackbird’s wing taking the storm for home.

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