December (2011)

At the end of the year
trees, stripped, rattle
My breath, when it comes,
rattles
Bones can splinter

Out in the wild,
eyes slits in the wind,
I walk thick
ropy tree roots
over cold rivers
The white sun
floods stone forests
I eat handfuls of red berries,
burst veins and slurp
old blood
  
Still I am asleep to God
  
Nights
the moon is no mother
The stars shrink back

I fear sleep more than death

Last day on the farm

Took a knife to the spinach
Hatchet to the neck
Five headless roosters hung
by their feet from the syrup shed

In the long night before
my first day here
I cut off all my hair

Naked, I began to live

The center

12.11.12

We were alone at the center of the night.
The lake was ice
ten inches thick
and when you put your foot down
to test, it gurgled and moaned.

It was not the kind of alone I was used to,
me in my one body, or the absolute
refuge beyond that,
the way you lay down on the concrete,
cupped your hands around your eyes
and stared up at the one color
there was. 

Try this, you said, it's like you're right there,
and the night widened for miles around us.