January

(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,
something changed.
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.

Walk Softly

There is a moment,
after the climax,
after the revelation

and betrayal,
the resolution,
after the credits
have slid past,
your face shifting
in the shifting light;

our lips tire
of telling
and our hands
talk only tip-toes.

The skin of your spine is
an ice skating rink
that weight will splinter.

There is a danger in us.