Winter Gudauri, Republic of Georgia
Trash-pile dogs bark the second
hand tick, keeping time under
our window. Flakes layer on
their bristled fur & this weeks waste.
I listen to the drunks stumbling
home on fresh-dropped snow
feet sinking into a forgetfulness,
stuck in a snow globe
unsettled by some unseen hand.
Or is my cranium the globe,
the storm, my thoughts? I watch
my wife sleepthe shifting winds
of each breath foretelling
the snows last kiss, but the blizzard
outside shakes the roof & she
wont let up.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 30 | Fall 2010