“…The body is relaxed and at rest,
the mind is relaxed in its nest,
so the self that is and is not
itself rises and leaves
to peek over the horizon, where it sees
all its psychokinetic possibilites
resolving into shapely fictions.”

– from “Purgatory, The Film” by V. Seshadri

and a quick draft when business was slow:

Snow Angels

We kick angels in the dirt,
our snow boots gouge trenches
in the backyard.

A plane blinking across the night.
Clouds holding no promises.
No clouds at all. Stars: shining

pomegranates seeds
we could pluck
with mittened hands.

Faded by dawn
their lumenessence
leaves no note.

We give in long before
midnight moon. linger
in dreams.

In the morning:
cold white angels
in a field of green.

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