Tuesday, January 3, 2012

The grand chill.

Winter waits around for the grand chill to begin.

Think--as thinking curries sympathy, of the work you'd do.

You might be untimely and coldly rude,
Flash freezing and stuffing its scuffs and laggard birds
In a belated letter

Or forcing its tears into fluid lakes as they firm.

Or be wild.

Would you let the last orange leaves have their place
In the unexpected mild

Would you--since you're a participant, now, wait, too?

The same thing that makes you believe there were dinosaurs
Lets you believe that when this missive comes the cold will come

Something else will happen.

Split the envelope as gloss spills
Across the white sunset seam


More vicious and important than words
The tongue to seal, actual and flush--


This season will--as if in writing, beg of you;
And the grave is not so different from the stars.

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