Artie Gold's Winter

When it becomes cold
and cold flies through my window like a white bird
or an ice necklace the seasons

tired of fire in August
spilt on my chest;
difficulty

I rise like smoke
on any winter day
in

photo bursts, or series
each so clean
distinct from the other

caught up by its strong pulse
sympathetically
as tho

there were no mistakes
never another Spring
would it suffer
if it had its way -

                                   -Artie Gold

November 23, 2011

The Collected Books of Artie Gold