wanderings

January 16, 2010 12:00AM

winter moans as a mopped
star.

one day slopped gruel, the other
curdled thick with wind and
frosted salt.

find me kneeling knee-deep in
plumes and slanting pines,
welts of mettle and stone,
rivulets and rainbows
captured as drifting glass and
thirsty
metal
limbic
silence.

in shoes of snow i’m lurching with this
rope, a dangled fiber skin,
scorched tartar slack,
sucking down the thistle
nerves,
cradled palpitations,
numbness.

there is Mother in the shadows,
white with straw.

a woman offers me a ride on the
trudge home.

i do not know why but i
refuse.