False Volcanic Memory

The fallen earth

gilded with golden snow

the lesser sun not warm enough

to blight the season's coat

but

a candelabra of white lit candles whose flames feed

on the covered paths. Converged

in the center of
Central Park

a smudge of ash on an otherwise untouched stained glass

And a blur of black fabric coat-tailing in the wind

Dolly in

Slowly

slow

glide through the snow blank haze of a dream

Faceless black specter in tattered robes

Eyes crowed oysters tight around black pearls

a shivering slender slivered body pressed

against the obsidian statue. His eyes

crack their ice mantle to look at the ground

He looks in his arms and the body is gone.

I tremble in the darkness once the candles are extinguished.

And although the rain may wash away the stain the fallen earth will always remain