walking around the Upper East Side,
listening to The Tallest Man on Earth,
wishing for snow and knowing
that snow is wishing for me.
we are all just targets in the night,
shoulders and skulls seen from above by sharks,
bullseyes for angels at which to aim
and give us their regret rain.
I still step away with the now,
and ask my friend Sam, whom I secretly love,
the reasons why and everything else,
and she denies everything with a song and a bullet.
prayers don't have to be religious in nature
and poems don't have to be perfect,
but they both have to be witnessed
by deities of various sizes, dancing.
I continue walking and humming hymnals,
feeling something on my cheek,
something soft, another soft layer on my mustache,
and I look up and see snowflakes falling.