A Black Yell

A black yell
too weak to block the snowfall
kept you up late,
feeling nowhere
under your bed sheets
and blankets.

Your cold hands felt good
against the heat of my hands.
So opposite our normal.
Fingertips caked in charcoal
left identifying prints on me.

We knew the black yell
came out of watching the news.
But you refused to quit Maddow,
compared that to turning
into an ostrich cartoon,
head stuck in sand
with blacked-out speech balloon.

Your shoes’ tongues
spoke a manifesto
against asphalt and double yellow lines
in preference of buffalo grass,
sagebrush, rabbitbrush and sandy arroyos.

The snowfall gave up
blocking out the void and the stars.
You chose to fit yourself
into the pocket of my sleep,
nested in the bright blue vest
of Peter Rabbit at my bed stand.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

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