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A violet light addressed the snow
(impressed, caressed, suggests)—
this memory brought to you
by a boy in 'belled jeans'
shifting foot to foot, impatient
to be off again. I believe
it (he, I, you) belongs to 1971,
when, after stubbing a Jay
smoked in the furnace room
of mom & dad's, drifted
out & down into woods, to
the stream imperfectly frozen
(stilled, cracked, shattered),
ice plates like crockware stacked
in the mini-culverts, hard on
successive mini-falls.
Snow fluffed (ruffed, bungled,
) the collar
of each bank, water like steel
champagne bubbled
the glassy vein. This someplace
else we're going, always,
ls being's destination—
void at the hub, where God
pulses violet (violent, voluble, silent)
& the rest is snow.

Jeffrey Skinner

I Offer This Container: New & Selected Poems
Salmon Poetry / Dufour Editions

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