A Collection of Mondays

Dark fragments of the winter
grow upon my face
like the winds of
a fierce Nor'easter
blowing hard down
steep Atlantic banks.

I wish hard that
I had seen you then,
during our winter,
under garland & glass
ever dressed in black.
all-the-while-in
our rudimentary pleasantries
and awkward stares.

But I have since
fast collected the
fractures,
with a dull razor from
my broken skin.
I watch them wash
and swirl downward
in the tepid
crimson water,
then step aside.