We want to circle the wagons
to peer at the life we left
to stand in prairies
where no one lives, abandoned
cold beneath clear skies
To rid ourselves of layers of armor—
hat, cloak, dress, slip, stocking;
then race up the frozen hill
hand over eyes, squinting
looking back on when we knew some things
ululating like children in a play-act
This frigid January evening,
pungent with desire and regret
no soot in our nostrils no candle left burning
just the bedsheets twisted up and tangled
as we are now
and may for some years be
No comments:
Post a Comment