Bruce Cohen
I am not as I know I should be
An accomplice to this winter evening.
Because the landscape’s snow-invisible
It seems I am too,
& come to realize this world’s a blanketed mutation of some other.
This balancing in the white-dark no one else
So beautifully visits. I converse with unfinished men convinced they
are right—
I speak to complete men who omnisciently doubt.
I reside in the kind of universe where nobody locks
His home. Over time, all keys go missing.
There are as many private definitions
Of love as there are snowflakes or fingerprints
Brushed as evidence after only
The vaguest notion a crime has been committed.
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