Freeze

The face of the pond sits still in ice.
Ripples caught in movement furrow
one after another; held breath; time in grip.
The windshields all are slick and spend time.
A lit cigarette yields to it.
And in the cold — in the halting —
I am aware of my own blood
and just how slow it’s flowing.
Print Friendly, PDF & EmailPrint
Avatar photo

Micah Paul Veillon is a writer from Rome, Georgia. He is a recent graduate from Georgia Tech where he studied history, sociology, and philosophy. He is a poet in residence at VoegelinView and his writing has been published in The American Conservative, The European Conservative, and Moonshine & Magnolias, among other publications.

Related Posts

Back To Top