Poetry

 

 

Charlie Guzman

As the Garbage Piles Upon the Piled Snow

Night is silenced by sips of milk
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It's nearly three a.m.
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A heart is remade, one destroyed, one enduring, one suffering, and one in love
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The wind hammers the floors, windows, doors
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Two people are fucking, and one is making love
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The lights flicker off and on among the buildings, eying the war
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Books lay limp, in boring orgies already told
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The trains have stopped moving, in and out of tunnels, not stopping at stations, no one waiting
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Joggers repent their unusual habits
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Gifts are getting thrown away, or displayed, or used, or ready to be used, or to be forgotten
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I miss a loved one, who loved me once, and so I'm left to wonder

 

 

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