BYE BYE SNOW

Second Snow Song

The snow it harms you.

Before you have made it even half of the way
to self-evaluative frenzy,

the rotten door will begin to sway
from the pistol unloading ghosts

that were vanquished to the cellar
last Leap day.

You had Olympics, elections which both struggle
to manifest equally now.

Evenly,
with swift dark quiver, motionless
under the lack of lightning,
the procession unravels—
a cork, marching on the carpet,
an envelope, pale and sweet,
a cleaver, fresh from the market,
and an ice-cream cone topped with ground meat.