The work of a ladder loving people
looks good beneath a sudden snow.
The way the work of all these hands
is smoothed and naturalized
when the drizzle joins
earth and heaven in semblance.
From his third floor window,
the mayor of East Providence looks inward
to find a reliable furnace
burning lunch like kerosene.
Empty storefronts worry him nothing,
the real action is on the river.
Water carries culture,
and all things wash up smooth before the dawn light.
The aurora of this strange season,
when snow yields to dew in junkwoods
and donut makers smoke in humming silence.
In the day to come
the vast night
will sharpen to a razor's edge
and press into the aorta of the body politic.
We all await the cessation
of time and space,
with shallow breath and diaherreah,
you can see its an "any moment" thing,
and the children seem to want it.
The mayor wants it too
in his blood,
and his office is
a walking plank to the uncreated.