sand and snow

this poem has nothing to do with sand and snow

but with vancouver, with the birds pulled in from 

the ocean, inwards and out above the folding water

presently, i am concerned with these birds, fashioning

a single letter above the steel waves and the cold sand. 

there are other birds of this universe. there are peacocks

which shake their feathers like a deck of cards being 

shuffled or several brooms quickly sweeping the floor of a 

cave. excuse me for a moment: "put on your mittens, if 

you're going outside." i apologize, but, you see, when the

blue pines freeze the town in winter like refrigerator coils,

you can catch cold. the tennis courts close, and no graceful

leaps of stretching or reaches choreograph themselves on

its key lime map. and, O, my god, am I tired, am I tired,

tired of silhouettes arriving in the fire. tired of the sand

smothering the snow for the sake of the tire.