wanderings

drifting

Snow... "storm".

The word,
or words,
depending on your position on space
or hyphen usage,

arranged juxtaposition
of the rage within something
so gentle.

I sat on the concrete bench
not caring about
melting snow
slowly soaking through
beneath bottom.

The hour well past midnight
and the deepening drifts
deadening the quiet.
Absence of ambient echoes
swaddle me in silence
like a space suit
separating me from
noiseless nothing.

The world I orbit
a lonely street lamp
illuminating snow
below
drifting down
and sideways.
Light revealing snow's motion
as white streaks,
like meteors,
gives shape and position
to the cast cone.

Heisenberg raises
a quizzical eyebrow

Stare up for long enough
and one might lose
sense of the ground.
Bench and ground fall away.
Float up to the street light,
but can never reach.
The space between
stretching like taffy.