Issue 11

Poetry

David Potsubay

Curvature


Summer heaves into autumn,
with sluggish heat,
unable to relinquish
its humid grasp on us all—
but winter is greedier, I think,
especially here.

Gray days and cruel nights,
with a frost like iced teeth
settling in deep places—
the corners of windows,
shadows of floors, and
even, under the eyes.

Seasons seem separate,
but if you see the curvature,
they are actually one.
Sometimes, the latest August
chills like the fiercest January—
shiver in heat, and languish in cold.