Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Jacek Dehnel

THAW

for P.T.

Everything’s melting. The sky looks bigger now— up high, same old hue; low, an added bonus: panorama of liquid, bluish mirrors. All around, unshackled by cold, the thaw’s rough anarchy leaves frothy mounds and streaks of slush: tree tops barely above water, rodents on the move, jumbled clouds rushing. In the woods, dribs of snow stand out: droppings of some seasonal monster. Only bridge and river rein in that chaos: they separate north and south, current and banks, channels and vistas; the road that meanders, the cities that join us, the people within. That we’re together is part of this order, like the thrum of roadside trees, the streets’ neat grid, the four winds, trim city squares, or lunar tides; my starched collar, your snug sweater, my left, your right pillow. This union: how it bonds us like two hydrogen atoms with one oxygen. _____

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