These seasons become a place,
different light shadows, water stains,

a far-away singing, a moaning siren
whose sadness reveal near edge.

Slowly thick molasses, blood drips
on untouched snow.  A wind whose

tiny hands flash quickly like a world
reveals fragility of distance- 

here from there.

Product of imagination, imprisoned;
truth astonishingly clear.  Now pray

this shiny, broken face, this sense
of body splitting spares you from


1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Oh wow, this is excellent.