The night is a long wooded trail,
a congregation of freshly severed stumps
losing their souls to the cold.
* * * * *
Come, River. Come swallow the ground.
Darken the stone and tilt the oaks
toward your lips. Lifeless tissue –
the blistering fingertips can be kissed
free of all pain in the cold.
* * * * *
There should be a single word for all
the lines of the hands. The originals
and those that the years force into skin.
Close your eyes. There’s no hope in sleep
coming tonight. There’s no end for the mind
but spare your sight the fog of the cold.
* * * * *
There’s an island in the shallow waters,
an inadequate scab on the wound. Brown
trapped by the blue. What is the distinction
between an island and an isle? This delicate breast
slipping from the blouse doesn’t seem worthy
of the heavy letters, or the whites of my eyes,
or the icy burden of my youth in the cold.
