Cold Fates
When the pale sun whelps sundogs,
heraldic blazon of Jack Frost,
and the fallen leaves still burn with dead light
the fates weave cloth of snow,
a hush of rosaries rotating in the loom,
crystal scissors cutting choirs
of angels out of numb air—
Breath deep,
take in the holocaust
of dawn in late autumn.
Take the ember on your tongue,
suck the icy marrow:
By this sacrament
be unhouseled,
unshriven.
When the expelled breath hangs
like a white torch
over a burnt offering
the cold fates can hear you speak.
Selah. Let us pray.
ah – vividsweet, world translated in dream. I am glad for this. Thank you.
two nights back you visited, confused – we hiked the red desert with erstwhile housemate & families – I held yr hand to say it’s all right
Good to have a hand to hold. Evidently, most nights, I’m travelling, but most mornings I step out of the bed and the dreams go on without me taking memory with them, like a train pulling out with my luggage still on it.
Just endured some miserable weeks of no recall – grasping desperate then resigned. now vivid again all this week and recorded minutely as of olde – behind exhaustion of making a bookshop for FOL? or full moon week? or Neptune transit? No time to investigate. Grateful to be kept writing somehow. Grateful as well for your new poems.
the iceman cometh even unto Kentucky ??