Raise plow
It’s a sign I see
Every time I’m drunk and passing
Through St. Marks
And I try to picture the snow mounting,
The ice expanding into the vacant cracks and
Smothering the already narrow throat
Of a street choking on its history

I’m one of the atoms spread thin over this street
Where Giants have howled to rebel moons
And forty years ago you could smell the revolution
In the sweat and thick clouds
Of smokes and songs
Coalescing into a snow of itself
That lined the streets in heavy piles

Raise your plow
You, machine

And leave it be
To the shapeless murmurings
And scattered thoughts of who I was
Just a year ago
When I was whole
And though I wasn’t always happy
I was happy
Because when I try to fathom where I’d be forty years ago
It strikes me,
A pillar of furnace flamed steel,
That my small murmurs are all the street of my throat of my skull has room for
So carry on, machine
Raise the plow