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Portent
It is good to think this minute might warm me when the room turns with its perdurable night-face. To stretch long into the white spheres of stillness, one must recall the clamor of hordes. And as a single shiver descends a body still ringing with warmth, grief reaches into the air to snap scenes between its sharp teeth: snow flashing gold under sun, the clattering limbs of the dog loping into the brush, and I at my window, watching birds yawp over seed -- as if we didn’t know the machination of sorrow; how it stirs beneath even these days, waking, rubbing its eyes with budding fists. Back
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