It all comes
in such a pattern.

Makes you sick to see it.

Makes you sad to know
that it can all be
and you have
no power over it.

white numbers
falling from the sky
because some
smart ass in ohio
decided that he knew the formula.

what a fucker.

humans are just
at destroying
beautiful unknown.
they take it
in their hands
push it
through their forehead
until its stuck
and without

and they call that understanding.

they drive themselves crazy
pushing equations
through the patterns.
and they don’t stop
to see
how hot the snow really feels,
how it can burn your soul
if you’re lonely enough.
how you can be standing
out in it
and not know why,
just hear the soft
of individual microcosms
as they infinitely crush
beneath your feet.

and then all of these other poets.
just like you
they are.

they try to figure it out through words.

but we don’t know the words
to describe how
the snow is,
how much it hurts
in a pleasurable way,

how we always
have a secret desire
to be pelted by a snowball
full of pebbles
because maybe then
we would find the person who
threw it
and we wouldn’t feel so at home.

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