April Snow

The cells are too small.

This wasteful vessel that carries them

not caring, deaf to climbing storms,

that whisper and hum

in sunrises pink with blushing clouds

and a horizon drowning in sky.



This day, the air is empty

as it faints and falls on our limbs,

frail with this empty blood.

White crumpled paper on bones,

that thrash and flail and fall

in vacant wind, in hollow hurt.



Nature evaporated, sunbeams delirious

with grey light, exhausted white.

Eyes slip downward, wilt and drift ;

sight dies as we reach and miss

collapsing touches. Unbound,

invisible fingers wound in showered music



together. Memories pry open scabs

like rotting flowers, the smell richly

punctuates pupils.

It’s coffin perfume

in this breeze of impossibility,

oxygen bare. Sterile, it

taints and twists together our breathing song.

© Kim Stouffer