Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into an artifice of eternity.

Wednesday, December 25, 2013


~ For J.H. ~

There is no snow this year.
The fields are a dull grey
hemmed by a haze of green.
Here, night falls into day.

Limbs inscribe a marasmus
on the emaciated clay –
It hardens under brittle grass
and grips the roots with decay.

We stroll between barren trees
where crunched frost routs crows.
Out on a limb where latterly it froze

a lone apple hangs, defiant, composed.

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