Is to begin to better know beatings
Of the mind, and how they beat
With beatings of the feet on snow,
Packing as muted pops pressed
Beneath colored Converses, calling
To mind our conversation about
Prayers broadcast from minarets.
Why do I feel the urge to fight
The urge to fall face up into the
Falling snow? If I were a child,
I would not question nor quarrel
With my more queer compulsions;
Instead, I settle for sticking out
My tongue, pierced, to taste metallic
Snowflakes fallen from night skies.
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