George Kalamaras

Issue #
February 18, 2013

Changes Like the Weather

This weather has nothing to do with a coat hanger.

This snow is not the possibility of a strapless gown.

When I redeemed my blood from the blind owl I felt an irritable solution.

An ordinary disturbance supplicated sorcerer’s hair as if the nails of the dead

     continued to know.

It was my ultimate discipline to astonish even my practice.

I had forgotten my nerve ganglia, as if I’d stopped at the corner store and

    brought home only the milk.

I closed off my ears, heard circles of strong sweet sweat.

Flex my flesh as if my brain was red-gold with OM.

A flourish of snuffling hounds knows fingers and toes and the scent of

    swan’s-down vests.

This weather could not, would not, reveal anything resembling skin.

It had nothing to do with ordinary purpose or even with a severe sexual strut.

It rose and fell, came and went, as weathers often do.

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