Winter
On a beach last summer somewhere
between Munising and Grand Marais
some sort of glitch in the space-time
continuum, a clear case of Someone
dropping the ball, rent a rather nasty
tear in the firmament, a real doozy
I would have missed but for the high voltage
bite of a stable fly that wrenched me
into the letter Z, upending
the blue horizon long enough to catch
a glimpse of winter, gunmetal grey
behind the drooping fabric of August.
Only a fluke of nature like the platypus
like a knuckleballer or improvisational jazz
but I'll still pause in a warm April rain
or gold September leaves, while pressing
a beaded bottle of beer to the scar
on my neck hot August afternoons
to listen for the icy bite of my name
faint rhythm building to crescendo.
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