k (no) w)

This parenthetical life slips
in between
modifying the snow
falling again.

Redemption is not
on my calendar. Perhaps
in another language. Perhaps in some
numeric sequence. Perhaps
if I can say these things aloud:

My love should
have (not like snow crystals
reflecting the sun)
been blue
like the arc that fuses metal
to metal; my love should

have full lips (not
gently brushed
with soft tongue)
bitten to bruising; my
love should have (not
torn between apology

and anger) been a simple
yarny thing
knotted, humble
warm enough
easy enough if
one takes the time.

Even the dangerous roofs
(ice and snow) could
have been a love poem
to you if I had known how.