Ice would cling to the rooftops;
slender fingers clasping December,
clutching the moon in silver apathy.

The cat howled at the wolf in the dark.
Hunger having seeped into empty bellies
and the night deepened, ripe with blood;
death hidden behind every shadow.

The Merrimack smelled of winter:
its slow decay ebbing and flowing,
like teeth gnashing on old bread.

Tell me again, when we walked this river,
when your skin was warm beneath your coat
and the sway of these hips caused you to shiver,
tell me again you used to love.

The stars weep what my eyes cannot.
I sing you songs upon a sea of ice,
but the woods won't answer your name,
and my soul is too old for these bones.

12/15/2008

Posted on 04/14/2010
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