You wake to a migraine of skates, draw a rink . . .
Your brain clots false binaries . . .
worrying the next of seven levels
knowing gropings and reversals have their own weird logic . . .
iPhones snap up your moves . . . exquisitely . . .
escaping overcooked Facebook chatter with elasticized joy . . .
Someone somewhere is about to walk into a room . . .
Again, the past . . .
Odysseyites make house calls with action figures
resurfacing February's frozen pond . . .
Schools of fish swim a snow day . . .
The understanding is white coral
interspersed with coffee breaks and fine china
and magicians - yes, magicians - with brown paper bags
brimmed with magic dust . . .
You continue to finetune your moves . . .
fueling the excitement of masked goalies with ulterior motifs . . .
Your mother kept the piece, downsizing a dream come true
for those dissecting the afternoon's fallout . . .
Transfixed, you enjoy bus stops that jolt you into journaling
your life partying with snow angels more often . . .
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| Irma Haselberger |