(Another influence poem, this time from Louise Glück.)
The misting of dusk becomes
the ice of morning; the grace
becomes the graceless.
My friend the tree outside has given
up; she was fooled, I think,
but cannot speak to verify.
Between herself and the air,
She wanted to run her fingers
through it; now they are caged.
We must not give up
as she has.
Above the fallen fingers,
above the hand and broken limb,
the brilliance of that life becomes
the graceless trunk.
Wander around her:
it is much easier to diagnose the dead.
From within the hand's
bitter disgrace, coldness and barrenness
my friend the power line uncoils:
she is on fire this morning.