Staci MacGregor
February, Class

There’s a certain kind of self that gets naturalized
he says and I soon realize
that snow doesn’t fall at all—
it stretches down to touch the earth
and then it just shivers for a while
swirling

Flakes that start out at five stories
stay there
changing direction like minnows
ash in a flame-thrown dance
expanding volume
up and up and up
and a sidelong glance

 

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