Sunday, November 10, 2013

Moonlight on the Bowery

The cold, the cowl, the creak.
The scoured skin, the granite chin,
the black cinder stare.
The blast of steaming breath,
the wolf with heaving ribs
among the birches.
The razorblade that nicks the cloud.
The cracked leather
crunches the snow.
The birds flicker
like dark licks of flame
in the bony bushes.
The furred and slimy things
are curled up warm beneath the dirt,
burrowed deep beneath the bark, 
hibernating through their hangovers.
But here you are; hunted, hunting,
your snout snuffling powder
as you weave through the woods,
following a single set of tracks;
your own.

1 comment:

  1. This one should be called Borrowing the Dark Age.
    Somehow it called up some of the very good early
    work of John Haines. And of course Simic. Both
    of these poets are good company to be with. I liked
    the stark economy....

    affections and praise
    ulrich stegna