Poem for Monday

Snowfall
by Jon Davis

Yesterday’s snow falling again
and already. Falling steadily
among the vowels, the tall consonants.
Alertnesses scumbling among the cabbages.
The eyebrowed jay named by a man named
for a star. Stellar’s. When I say the word
the pleasure happens on my palate
and I am never the same person again.
Smoke. Granular. Piñon. Clouds
slumping into the valleys. The idea of snow.
The actual idea. On the snow-encrypted
branches: bird-skitter. Then bird.

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Courtesy , the Viggo Premiere article and commentary:

Q: What do you think makes you sexy?
VM: I don't really know how to deal with that question. I'm sure there are just as many people who think I'm a grizzled hack.
Q: I guess Brad Pitt's the pretty boy type of hunk and you're the, you know ...
VM: ... the grizzled hack version? Do you think we should play brothers or something?
Q: You should.
VM: Or lovers?
Q: Maybe lovers. Yeah.
VM: You think people would pay to see that?