Hold your fist in the air. Support
the sky by leaving it there. Pride
of the world, you say, with your hand.
This elbow node of the culture,

bent at its soft angle. As if
to say, we are both atlas, and
if we fail each other, the sky
may break into pieces and fall//

Hail hits the windows, rattles vents
and the game console cools slowly
and out of the pattern of snow
on the window, and hot plastic

something forms. It’s an odd meaning
that shifts and cracks and congeals out
of the air. This passage of heat
towards the cold. In sheds, remains

of the past sit in the chill air
and spiders die among them. Peace
steps through the door in the shape of
someone who cares. They nudge you out

of a rut you slid into when
time disjointed. One day, the earth
will cool to a black lump, but still
we have lived and learned together