the poet
swept aside the magical snow
the writing bureau feted him
he sat amid confetti motes of tears
all his thoughts knitted paths of forgotten sleighs together
they led him with flashes and blue sparks like an enormous Catherine wheel set in motion
as if to melt her heart in systole
his ink ran dry and he sets his quill aside
the parchment rests to absorb his thoughts
after he died Larissa closed his heart like a book and perished in a gulag
a number on a page
Flynnpoetry 