In such amplifying heat; no one
Is alone unless they plug their ears
With their freezing, white-knuckle hands.
Sacred solitude in winter's blanket is
Warmth beyond warmth, with distance
Shrinking the overgrown spaces and
Keeping people uncured but unfrozen for now.
Streams run quickly underneath ice and skin,
Multiplying and dividing into vast numbers
Of lines that hold life itself in the balance.
Those who went left have lost this game.
Such a persistent, untamed devil could
Only rule his own hill in a place like this.
If nothing dies than nothing is born, leaving
Would-be angels to fly somewhere less benign.
What cursed sense of irony makes
Me long for such a pregnant place.
I am barren of any desire to freeze and
Thaw and accept this ever-increasing volume.
No comments:
Post a Comment