Off the Gunflint

Wednesday, January 15, 2020

A trail of snapped things,
thickets nipped
thoughtfully.
A cold sashay.
Someone wore soup pots
as snowshoes
and postholed
the blue snow,
each print its own
thought; something
that big did not need
to hurry.  Where
are you, yellow incisors,
petroleum gaze,
octopus lips?  Horsehair
couch with chorus-girl knees?
Rack of spreading cartilage?
Gone, leaving only these
cold wells of hunger
across the nothing of winter.

Wednesday, January 15, 2020