The Black Chemistry

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One of those goddamn depth-of-winter days when the snow is sooty, the sky relentless gray, the trees dismal brown. You force yourself out for a run and make it as far as the cemetery but sure enough your foot aches, you step in a deep cold puddle, and you’re going to die someday.

This chaotic black chemistry that is you.

Then the freezing rain starts like someone mocking me.

I lower my gaze and—look at that—the bare trees reflect in the puddle and the raindrops dream up perfect round eddies like notes from a song.

And just this, this slight change of angle, shatters my gloom. I go a little faster and lift my face to the icy stings, and imagine that, I can still feel, I can still run, the sun won’t come out but I’m not dead yet.


Read this with Skating on a Winter Night, my just conceived series of winter poems.

By David Klein

David Klein

Published novelist, creative writer, avid reader, discriminating screen watcher.

Novels

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