Sunday, August 9, 2009

January: Year-day 8

January: Year-day 8 We are slipping into summer. I may never finish this poem. The eyes of dogs inhabit the leaves. Nowhere is the sky so clever as on clear cold days in winter. The rabbits shake in their holes. A scoop of darkness rounds the crescent bowl of the moon. Clutch yr nerves. We're sliding into the rain. The guard rail bounds from the woods. Open, close. My vision swerves. If peonies of ice bloom before us, it is only because the ants of fiction crawl. Nothing usual has a place to go. The consternation of fetuses thrust to unjust deaths. The isobars of diction. And the wind chill's more// than fifty below. -

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Rhodingeedaddee is my node blog. See my other blogs and recent posts.