space out

Off in the grey sky, a figment blinks once.
It seems a star would have stayed,
or an airplane would have shown again
as the silver finger arcing my horizon
to the other, but the light is gone.
I view the falling snow from my seat.
For a moment, the wind shifts
from directionless lift and
each white plummets down.
Today I held out a gloveless hand.
I let my bare limb suspend in the air
before my warmth shrank away
the perfect Victorian trim to
a little bit of running water.
It seems they have not found it elsewhere:
running water like we have.
It’s ice or dried to salt or eaten up
on mars or the moon.


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