You disappear again, December sun turns light to ice, fracture of frozen stars responsible for months of snow. Now that you're gone it's winter: I can sleep, but don't. Cold bright guided me to you: save me some fragment of its linger. Poured over glacier meal's cracked maps, I stumbled through mist's occlusions: now recognize the face never turned to me, myriad myths of you. Of course there was a portal you led through, underworld of wind-twisted trees. The preoccupation with endings breaks open, two equal -ly irregular shreds of cloud: white sky falls from the rent defining them. Who turns in this version, fixes me to either side of mourning? Your heliotrope gaze turns and I am caught adjusting my sorrow, among spilled waves and crashing particles, breaking open the day to see what it contains. (Look at me now I'm losing you.) Light-footed gods traverse the light between the living and the too-loved dead like echoes or reflections: the body breaks in two but walks away. (I pissed my name, Orpheus, with doubtful penmanship into the white. I had to scar it somehow, undo its clean efficiency. The frost will fecundate another crop of ghosts.) Cold bells of breath second the snow, the winter you became. (Wind again: there is no sound. You must have a winter's mind.) I walked out of cold hell, mourned well when you disappeared from view: same voice, no face, rubbed clean by renown. I need some music now.
Added: 30 Sep 2002 | Last Read: 22 Feb 2017 8:00 AM | Viewed: 5950 times
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