CL Bledsoe

FEBRUARY

Gutters slap the ground, suck air 

from the lungs of students. The parking lot 

is perfect for hockey if you don’t mind 

the mounds that may or may not hide 

cars, all of the hills, too deep for sledding, 

perfect for trudging. Snow lives 

backwards—it falls quietly as death, leaves 

loud as an infant, creaks like the bones 

of an old man. The year comes in dying, 

catches its breath in long white plumes, 

and stumbles on.