untitled poem

when i walk, i leave no footprints
the snow streaks across the ice leaving
perfect lines and dunes in 2-D.

when i run, i see my breath,
ghost air spraying out and up
plumes like the frills on the neck
of a long-dead parliament.

even when i run, though,
i leave no footprints --
no trace of me, no clout.
no stomp of anger, no ---

but, let's forget about that.
let's talk about the snow
and how it, how it, how it
freezes and sticks and melts
and clings and blows and
hurts and dances along the
sky, twirling, a feminine spectacle
seducing to death and frozen wonder.

--december '06, read at "hard freight" coffeeshop open mic