The Poet Spiel

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slow thaw    

i think i’ll head out on foot
into this blizzard
traipse up a mountainside
far off the beaten path

until i cannot walk
until it does not matter
until i collapse to numb
beneath the crush of snow

you’ll know i’m not here
when you slide your hand across our bed
where it should feel warm
but you’ll find it does not feel warm

you’ll know i’m gone
when you no longer wish
to slide your hand
across this bed

oh but first i picture eadweard muybridge
re-emerging to capture this scene in stop-motion
each step of the mystery of my demise
then the process of your hand letting go

his time-lapse shots
noting many seasons’ thaws
before my body might be found
but the coldness of your sheets 
      in just one

Previously published in ZYX, Barely Breathing