The rising storm is part of me 

and then foreign–

some kind of language.


I open the door, snow comes, sidelong, hard, 

like thoughts at the end of life.

Do you know? I start to laugh. 


Grandfather died, 

left his house 

filled with dynamite 

and instructions–

tell the police it’s old and unstable.


Inside a man, one vault after another, 

and what with the snow,

you leave things behind. 



Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University

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