The coldest day of any year

snow-hammer
The coldest day of any year
by Dan Raphael

we take off so much & stop
unaccounting, polariats with their own dance
as if feet were winds and each of us a valley or rill
I breathe in, then subdivide, open my roof to a light of winged questions
on horizon the color I want to be, so when 2 press together—
melting, baking, rising—the stiller the clearer
the joy of decoration—a slash of light, a sprinkle of lost animals

if I let go of any more I’ll disassemble, levitate or both
a swarm with different definitions of home
how it tastes, only what I cant remember is true
stomp my feet, pluck my ribs, my panoramic eyes so sticky & voracious

walls are foreign countries.
something got in my while I slept demanding a puddle of simmering minerals
a series of gestures instead of gloves; smoke across the field as if lightning struck
that cloud could be the wing of a sweeping homes away
by pressing against my chest, by vining my arms
enough of me left to turn dice into prayers
so the wind delivers without stealing, the rain stays in the frozen streams

whose hands will hold the soup. Whose memory will bring us meat.
whose wind-wrought hair brushes the promise of spring

one net, one nail, one match
a naked run to cleanse me
to rush the forest down my throat

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1 Comment

  1. I get a solid sense of skiing down a mountain with the rhythm of this piece. The words add to the image touching on landscape, speed, momentum, and the inner flow reached by in the moment. It may have nothing to do with skiing- but that is my take.

    I have never been skiing. I just like the gerund of it. Skiing. Two i’s. That’s awesome. Unrelated. Whatever.

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