new york buried in crushed snow
snow gets dirty so fast
someone is coughing
in the next room
interrupting this poem.
Snow is falling outside - and already
in my previous crumping footsteps
shows - a certain pattern
of spots of brown - shit,
i've trodden on it,
borne upon my airy clouds
that to me seem hard slow and compressible_but
to the inhabitants below, an endless crystal dream
imagine if our sky
was suddenly covered , the planet encased
like a Christmas ball turning the lights
of the solar system all prism
as it hung , glorious.
Imagine if someone stepped on it! New York,
buried in crushed snow.
Peter Greene 2010.