If Not, Winter

(in progress)

Little lip snag,
comma lackadaisically pulsatory.
Winter harnessed in broken creek, of where tubulicole memory speaks.
Flakes brush across as a cheek, porous--
Unseen spokes,
the Carpenter wheels untamed.
Just as a comet
chases its own
tail--
finding this lip unrung.

Fungible

And when it's said and done, all that's left is a story.

Back.

8778 miles; no letters

In Vienna.

Why?

The feeling circles itself in the atmosphere. Am I looking for purple-licked skies, hazy half-eaten moons?