|
Bottle The Frost
Whatever the frost can’t kill grays in the moonlight.
We scour the flattened reeds, the ear-shaped beds belong
to whitetails, you guess. I’ve never killed one, but
I’ve sure seen them dead.
I am a catalogue of bad thoughts.
I flitter to the river where scripture is a cutbank.
Carrion festers - carcass chest lilts in the creek,
flesh below water preserved in fresh innocence.
Years back, you wore brother’s faded overalls —
hand rolled cigarette pouched in your breast.
The names we carve in the gut of the maple
will erase in tomorrow’s storm. The carcass will fade.
We bottle the frost - save it for hotter days.
|
|
