Whisky sip,
smoke draw
across lips,
snow,
St. Paul
and the Broken Bones —
soundtrack sweet as
buzz: a breath of peace
before deluge and
plunge, before
what soul is, where it
came from, who
holds it close, who
cannot grasp it, is
forgotten.
We sit, temporarily
satisfied in deep night,
sibilance outside as
one storm hisses toward
ending, as another
approaches.
Another sip
of whisky. Another
deep pull of smoke,
another song, and
at last,
sound sleep.
Dark Matter 
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