A driver bucks a crossing eland in a blizzard
Girl’s gloves, frozen solid, in a day-old snowdrift
The signifier, and what is signified
The groundhog, and its shadow
Heart-clove imprints left by animals
The second day of the second month of the 22nd year of the 2nd millennium
And for a moment, he said it was unclear whether hands were putting music into the keys, or taking it
out
All day the sky makes snow
The hands the feet the fingers the toes the teeth the eyes the ears the lungs the lips
The hemispheres of the cerebral
A child runs into his parents’ room, straight to the mirror, ready for the him in it to step through and kill
him
The piled snow leaps from the sagging branches, down into the more of itself, down into the more
The thoughtless rabbit takes comfort knowing
That no 2 snow crystals
Are exactly alike.
Brooks Harris is a graduating senior at DePaul University, majoring with a degree in Creative Writing. His primary focus is poetry, and has had his work appear in places like previous editions of The Orange Couch, Crook & Folly’s last issue, and on the Fourteen East website; he also has self-published his first collection of poetry, titled “Multiple Stories Happening At Once.” You can show him most any book and odds are he can tell you the font it is in.