blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2010  Vol. 9  No. 2
print version


Snow blindness
from the incantations
of sterile skin
& results.

Water stoops
for diagnosis
like the cellophane

around the bunched
flowers of my autumn.

The boiler is lit.
My heart again
is indigestible.

I cannot cut myself
from facts.

It is cold &
the trees are all dying,
their bark
soft & black
as rotten meat.

If you are alive
one year from today
I will ring brass bells
& do something dramatic,
like drink a glass
of water.  end

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