Another tumbledown tatterdemalion
winter, its coat gone raw. Broken rosary
of salt over all our roads. I am closer
to crow than anything, have availed
myself of the tooth-cracking feast
laid out by February. February’s gone.
Today I slept through the sun
and the hours of the sun. Tonight I greet,
in place of sleep, faces I weave
from sheet-thread, clear sight, and the slow
ache of clocks: my face, near-crow;
your face, cut-boned, lovely. At dawn I leave
my house, stand in new grass and light.
Sometimes the thaw arrives at night.