Menthol

White car, white curtain & snow is falling past
the white sill, its chipped paint, these misted panes…

Should your ghost show up now wrapped in veils
& smelling of the weather, the scentless ether fog
& as still as the parked white car

whose headlights are wolf’s eyes yet on the prowl,
then it shall be just another scene written in blank script,
the sound on mute, but for one flake & the next,

that gown hush, & both of us swallowed,
Director, take note,

by the next exhaled drag.

A resident of NY, Stephen Mead is a published outsider artist, writer, maker of short-collage films and sound-collage downloads. In 2014 he began a webpage to gather links of his poetry being published in such zines as Great Works, Unlikely Stories, Quill & Parchment, etc., in one place:  Poetry on the Line, Stephen Mead