Cosmo Park

Cold finch
on a branch
in the empty park
hears only snow
in the west.

Sun slaps
the flat plains
so hard yet the
dry grass
sits still.

Gray wool
clouds enwrap
the ground with
indecisive
mix.

Sparrows
like fat
walnuts play
on barberry
thorns.

Chestnut
horses
steam in the barn’s
six-thirty
chill.

Around
their hooves
restive cats dance
searching for
game.

Winter is
corpse-hand
cold but barren
streets hear
a heartbeat.

P. H. Coleman graduated a fine art BA, sold shoes and ad copy, and taught chemistry at university and high school for years. Though a PMY, he still has things to say, and has done so in obscure publications in Vermont and Missouri. He is at present safely woven into the Vermont hills with three dogs who tell him what to write.

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