hallowed

winter is a

sly fox

 

running over

masks of

ice fields

 

summoning

rough-spirit

winds and

bandwidths

 

chlorophyll cooling

within moon

struck sticks

 

and far below the

countervailing

gravity

 

a hairless human

 

ice fishing for

obsolescence

 

in argillaceous

spaces

 

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i cannot think past the young girl gone missing

right in my own town

right in the very same

village where my own

daughter was playing

last night, saying,

‘mom, stop worrying

so much; this is a safe

neighborhood!’

 

right where she ran with the other girls,

her hair trailing behind her like a mare,

her heart wild-singing under a full fall moon

 

right at the almost-age of young woman

 

it is a heart-gut-soul-wrenching terror

to have a child in this world

 

in this place where every thing

you think you know is pulled out

 

from under you

from inside of you

 

under a heart beat

 

it makes you want to hide

and keep your children inside

 

forever

 

for you know this is not the

first or last time; for you know

you cannot fight this kind of evil

 

but what kind of life is that?

 

love out-endures in the long end,

and perhaps faith carries it there;

 

but where do hope and joy

go in that monstrous moment?

 

joy is gone in a flash — with the girl

 

hope must be kept alive at the bedside;

otherwise, how do you ever get up again?

 

how do you ever close your eyes to sleep?

how do you ever trust to dream?

fiona

UPDATE: Fiona returned home safely the following morning. No further details provided (or needed). Thank God!

open your eyes

pole

the talking wires

shadow me on

my tiny-totem

trajectory

 

the half dozen geese

hail the october sky

as they sail into her

wide, waiting eye

 

the writer spider

evolves her steel

city delicacy under

the front-porch eaves

 

as the body of knowledge

creeps in through the

thinking crack in

the winter-wall

 

and all in the

span of a wink

totem

light house

some people never open

their windows; they don’t

even know the light in their

own house: on a hill, up a wish,

 

down a well, over the bows

and arrows of this slant-death

that comes too quickly

and without discovery.

 

they don’t know the planes of

their own ocean floors, the jig-

saw spread and tongue-in-groove

lilt of sloping wood where you can

 

lie flat for hours and breathe

deeply for the first time in your

life: buried briefly far and away

from the shiny hammer of terror.

 

if you never attend to your

fear—to the full tilt and lift of the

continent sheets; the vast forms of ice:

the spite—you can never attend to your love.

declaration of independence

when, in the course of four

mountains, one encounters the

four winds, and the four directions

by which they came;

 

when the buck meets you on the

borderland and says: we are one

in the same; when the eye of the

cliff excoriates your four-score soul;

 

when you descend from the perfect-union

heights and wend your way down, down

into the well of stars to find the cell-singing

mountain bending beneath your feet;

 

when, in the course of four

sky-strings, you let go and

fling yourself off this earth

engine; and open every door.

when