A spirit fleshing out
mid-afternoon
Flashplayer anxieties
was also a snow-drift,
a child’s plaything,
an artist’s “ideal form,”
and an economist’s “involuntary labor stoppage.”

It crisped a drunkard’s pubic beard
to a sallow lettuce-leaf frost wake
and like evidence of tears.
His pistachio dick shriveled
plaster-pale as he
Unwept his burden in the alleyway.

There was no soul dared cry Wolf,
no cleverly argued redeeming
Proposition
to counter the dire howling of the wind
in its ethereal passing:

It felt like a ghost, a
Holy Ghost,
but it moved like
swarming.

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