Single the sky, pulled taut above earth
single the sky, above water. Bound
to bark and leaves. You are solo.
Blended into paint and forced into color
the song of a man in his bed at dusk
the sparrows lighting outside his window.
TO HIS WIFE FAR OFF IN A TIME OF WAR
that you are not among the winter branches
the door opening
a trapezoid in deep gold light
I awoke to water in the distance
rushing loud as traffic on High St.
more real than traffic on High St.
if you were to come now
hair draping your shoulders
were to kiss my neck
bending to clip the flower
a happy lover might be
known to run to excess
but tell me am I happy
Winter’s the thing.
A place to lay one’s head.
To sleep at last
to sleep. Blue on flesh
in snow light,
iced boughs overhead.
This is a poem about breath,
brick, a piece of ink
in the distance.
Winter’s the thing
I miss. The font is still.
A fanfare of stone air.