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, June 7, 2017


~ For JH~

Again, the fingers of winter extend arthritic knuckles into the gloom,
rheumatic joints grind like a hull’s crushed planking,
brash bergs meet and pack what is already frozen, and the branch
that pleads at my window is dead inside its casing of ice.

It was winter in the park when we parted, the lake was a rink of glass
though a crack ran across its middle like a plate or mirror split in two.
This was once our serving scene, its island our secret omphalos,
where fish now hang and stare dead-eyed through the murky ice.

A lone tree died there, winter had stripped it bare as a gallows.
On the bank a boat like a dead pod was upturned and its oar,
frozen against the stern, stopped one like a raised hand.
Snow continued to fall on the ice of that parting year.

It is winter again under the pergola and the lake is a plate of ice.
Geese congregate along the shore, lifting and alighting in unison.
Already their hearts have flown, dreaming of distant lands:
An Icicle hangs like Damocles’ sword from a purlin above my head.

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