“SIP”

Fog above snow,
long ago fallen;
it hovers
over this melting morning.
Floating slow so
as to transfix the ground
to the corpse we call sky,
as I move one litless room
to the next and back.
Mist and smoke, vapor
and breathe.
I wait for a whistle
and after that,
I wait to crack the crust,
skim the steaming surface,
and press.

narrative poem written on 03-10-2015 by: on mattkane.com
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