Black snow saturated
with the outer most layer
of the pavement pushed
into piles that take the shape
of infected lungs.
We walk between them
and pretend it’s getting warmer
when we all know that it isn’t,
and if nothing else, they remind
us what we make out here.
Long trips between one state
and the next, the highway
is the blood stream
of a creature so obsessed
with itself it cannot see
the cigarettes are killing it.
At night it sleeps with an
ash tray on its protruding belly
and holds its burning leaves
in stasis right above it
until the paper is burned away,
and the flame begins to spread
against the graying knuckles
that melt down into a fist
that’s made entirely of bone.
Snow Piles
Teleporting Typewriter 