Hunkered

 

a.

There is a shape I would say,
not a truth;
It is merely a shape the words take
The way cedar needles
accept snow
onto their brightened radii
onto branches
heightened fractals
to its coils

b.

The mind of the snowman
believes an intricate,
particulate thing:
a single word as amulet
It takes snow
across its broken and torn face
On a dark street it awakens
the moon dial of the night
to the nothing
voicing

c.

that is also there
that speaks aside
in the howling
It has no vowel
no consonants
It is rather a dark fabric
of sound
tortured by motion
its nation
tipped out
of  truculent clouds
whipped out
driven forth
as the devils in old engravings
as if
it were all so logical

 

          d.
It comes in our ears
behind a frozen dial
hidden in wild grasses
around a frozen lake
Something small is crouched
in a globe of fear
It’s a rabbit in a pocket of feathery snow
The eaves of language overhang it
but they are ice too
Something calls to it
the starlight exquisite
but the rabbit can’t see it
says now Dash
Make a run for it

 

             e.

And this is the tongue
of darkness licking into its fur
destroying it
Push
It is a torn sentence we see in the snow
scamper of paw prints
imprints that terminate in tiny claws
before it ends somewhere
a vanishing upward
into its cry
human songs end this way
sometimes
a feigning
version

a soul singer’s

rabbit death falsetto

whispered up a keyboard

 

                 f.
a descending ascending winged thing took it
using moonlight
as a conscience
its larger claws
sank into its back
together they rose
into the scream
that is everywhere
there is no telling it
its life back
that is for the poem
to pretend
the one
also funnily
doomed

g.

The tiny silver needs of the ice spun

holding the breath of morning

 

 

 

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