Winter

A Poem by Mark

A perfect breeze sweeps across the night
except it's some ten degrees so we can't quite see
   the beauty in it. Trolling amongst the corpses
the wet hard flesh thunking clumsily together
       between itchy stiff sheets retwisting
arranging, trying to find a right alignment to
draw out some soul some life or love or....
      There's too many mirrors on this rock, I
        look in my eyes and see what I've
         been feeling is no different,
     no explanation for it all except the
   desperation of the dead burns as calmly
     in me as anyone, the army of
       thunking empty clunkers.
    The winter is long and the booze aplenty;
      maybe that's all we got.