A young man laid
upon one narrow side
of his queen size
bed, plopped on
the hard pine floor
of this empty room
of this empty house.
He laid very straight;
His ankles braided
and his arms folded,
as though he were
sled racing
his own corpse.
He laid a perfect still
life, sans light,
saying nothing,
trying to think
of nothing. He wanted
to rain so he could lay
in that bed
alone and listen
for the leaves to drip
and the puddles to pop
and the moss to muddle
and the gutters to gargle
and the ceiling to seep
until he, himself, ceased
to exist within
But the darkness, though damp,
did not drizzle
and there was very little
blowing through
that stark scrap
of quiet space.
So the young man laid,
beginning to imagine
a patch of perfection
in the snowy, frozen landscape
of a memory untouched, unseen,
uniform white;
Glowing in the unrelenting
of unbroken boyhood delight;
Feeling his entirety sink
in those frosted first
crisp steps
before falling backwards;
Only the cold to catch him.
The young man spread himself
on his queen size bed,
ankles and wrists
centering himself,
soothingly sighing;
Snow angels in the sheets.
Snow angels in his sleep.
He continued trying
not to think
until he was dreaming
again, ceasing to exist
for another
three and a half hours.

written on 12/29/2012 by: Matt Kane