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Winter
The cold
With steely clutch
Grips all the land . . . alack,
The little people in the hills
Will die!
Wiersze na temat: cold
Wiersze na temat „cold” na Poets.by.
Those that from a long way off look like flies
like the cold leaving me
how small
the sight of ships
Student days
books were my oysters
and with little money
I was content to wear a gown
indoors all day
and go out with my legs
into the cold
Geology in brief
no wind in a stone
only cold and time
dirt getting all weary work to do
like us is loose
Country Living
sitting in a cold house
staring at my empty wood stove
thinking it’s my fault
that she went cold
and with the lights out it’s brighter
outside than in
the snow reflecting the clouds
reflecting the lights from town
a house is a strange husk
home to so many others
like the 18 white-footed mice
I’ve slaughtered this winter
or my dreams which I no longer recall
but which I presume to exist
like the giant rat snake whose skin
I found in the ceiling
* * *
cold snap
the one-take tune I make
breaking icicles
* * *
bone zero
freezing in mid-stride
at a snake-shaped stick
Head cold
The house is pinned
under heavy snow.
My head fills with mucus.
Icy limbs strain
to reach the ground,
alternately melting and freezing.
I drip in the noon-time glare.
Let me be replenished
in nightly increments.
The remains of the cold
The fever & the cold
are odd bedfellows.
Even goldfinches turn down the heat
during their autumn molt.
I lie fallow, letting bloom
a virus that slipped in
under cover of affection
& now withers in the ditch.
White Night
Bones aren’t this color.
Their darkness is on the inside,
not the outside.
This is the white of a tunnel
in a paraffin candle
from which the wick has been pulled:
burning isn’t an option,
you have to keep moving to stay ahead
of the cold on its pale horse.
Living in Analog
The cold is a mother
as generous as the space
between the stars. I gave her
my discontent & my distance:
all those older & more restless selves
who are still out there, moving away
at the speed of light.
I grinned for Polaroid & single-lens
reflex alike, but inside
I was wincing. Cold.
I learned how to knit
when I was seven: scarves
& sweaters, socks & gloves, maps
& pastures & that long deep lake
I later loved. By then I’d crossed
oceans, no mere mermaid;
Privation
In that chilly apartment
the cat found the warmest spot
on top of the refrigerator
the refrigerator would cycle off
with a violent shiver
the cat’s tail would twitch
in the silence that followed
we would lower our voices
& move closer together
the walls were thin as takeout menus
the ceiling had a stain
in the shape of Antarctica
we each had bruises
on our hips from
the other’s hipbones.