In the Middle of Hosanna

snow heaped against the generator

smooth white talussouth-side-snow-generator
at the foot of sheer thought in
arctic regions of mind

through glass the near tangle
of bare forsythia 
beneath draped wires
pole to pole:
 a snap of unchecked ruminations
that fold upon themselves in crazy chiaroscuro,
a dispensation of light expected in a skull of whims
further right the barrel arc of a stone wall
familiar now as spots on the back of a hand
is as solid as the conviction of crystals in a cool savanna
between here and the neighbor’s shed at the center of

Jim Culleny