Arthur Michelstetter - January 23, 2024
Artwork by - Brenna Billington
The streetlight reels the film
of static air conically.
Piercing the black sky,
it illuminates
my black winter coat.
The woolen coat covers a
wooden body containing
a tell-tale heart that beats
as long as bears be awake.
My coat hides a once-fiery soul;
the snowfall slowly envelops once-orange
leaves on the ground so cold-
cold like my eye eluded by
the new moon awaiting its rise.
The beauty will rise on a romantic,
poetic night; I’ll have painted
leafy orange nails onto my frostbitten,
blue hand. And I’ll have obtained
the barista’s number written
after ten mornings, ten days
of daydreaming influenced
by my wooden parts containing
a once-beating heart looking
for a more human state.
I’ll have spent hours melting
sheets of ice off the side of my car
off onto the side of the road.
When headlights drive by,
they’ll see a furnace in the forest
with the charcoal simmering
by the movements of me and
my port being moored in.
When the beauty rises,
I’ll ignite in flames
on top of the ground-bound snow.
A bonfire in a dark winter forest
always bests a bright backyard's
s'more's summer vanguard.
My wooden corpse
won't serve as kindling; its sodden self
will have dried. And it won't become
wet when I walk under the streetlight,
the reel flipping frantically
with snowflakes tumbling
as I hold onto the snowy post.
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