by Kelly Stacy

It snowed this morning and with the temperature’s
slow rise turned to rain, the thin sleet sheets
hung around till one,
then faithfully they gave themselves
over to the constant patter
and I am up to 1848 in People’s History
of the World, it has never
been a good year for the people
and there is no sky this afternoon,
no clouds either
cause clouds are singular,
they can only look like that particular shoe
or steamboat
or face of Christ
and the gray that holds over Flatbush
is collective, our place on Earth
ends now at the peak of the highest
apartment complex, there is no water
pouring from heaven today, the rain
falls from all these squat buildings,
dropping from the ironwork
of fire-escapes, letting go of window ledges,
caught in a spray on the wind breaking
against the bricks,
or in the small river
running off the rust stained gable
of the Methodist Church on Ocean
and I guess I should feel blessed
cause the winter’s always coldest
under clear skies.

Kelly Glen Stacy 

Kelly Glen Stacy is a poet living in Brooklyn with their partner, Ashley. They graduated from Ball State University.

_{Artist: Jordan Sanchez}