By two o’clock the snowstorm had begun
its diagonal attack on windows
overlooking East 7th. Inside, low
hum of the fridge. Hard to tell when the sun
went down: the night sky retained a special
glower: crystals, infinitesimal
mirrors, falling, reflect who we are. Sky
the color of burn. Nothing here is pure.
But in the morning upper branches lace
themselves in a graceful matrix. Ivy
firmly woven onto the fire escape
shivers a little less in the rising
slant of the sun. This day will be clean. Let
us meet in the sober and snowswept light.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 1.
David Eye’s chapbook, Rain Leaping Up When a Cab Goes Past, is forthcoming from Seven Kitchens Press. His poems have appeared in The Louisville Review, Puerto del Sol, Stone Canoe, Consequence Magazine (finalist, 2010 Consequence Prize for Poetry), and others.
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