and a black and white picture reveals nothing,
red dirt is red blood and dust and soot and grime.
These are, for the most part, poems.
the window sighs the last of the rooms heat,
sifting out to melt the sleet,
stealing a breath to warm the street,
crawling out from under my sheet.
My frozen toes my dull numb feet.
Each leaden wave of cold hard breath
tumbling like cake crumbs
past from lung to lip and mind and heart.
each billowed breath hotly numbs
every thought tumbling in my head
every step tumbling down my path
stumbling and rotten, so goes my part.