12-17-2013

On muddy fields
turned up same
and black
and ready,

new songs sang themselves
into waiting,

among waiting,

where keys dangled
in seen-comet still.

The singing yet
pulls itself
through
inlet crookedness -
earth crookedness -

to fractal shorelines
straightened,

fractured in their straightening,

poured out,
pressed down,

Their remainders
spilling over the unlit west.

Old December

Its sky,
lightless.

Ending month
of unseen clouds

Or inundating stars -
their ungatherable heat
embered
in the cold
of their own silver light
above ungloved pines.

Its houseless nights
and windowless bends.

Its unbridged straits
and catch-out-to-anywhere murk.

Its brittle taste of juniper.