Peter A. Weinberg – Poetry

This time of year
   New York City streets are cold
   and unforgiving
Runners here often
   run hurt

There’s nothing to look forward to right now
   nothing to explain
Old hag winter is here to stay
   with her atrophying muscles
   and her rigid wrinkled face

When things go well for you, child,
   and your health is good
   those cold blue eyes of yours shine

These acid angels terrify--
   if they could they’d burn the scars
   right off my heart
      and curse this raging child

We will meet again in gladness
   which will, even to me,
      seem sacred
In this space unworldly bell-like whispers
   we can barely hear, barely perceive, but listen
      the joyful bells are light and
      the mournful bells are sweet

-December 14, 2007-