Hibernal & Harmony of parts
[ poetry - april 05 ]
With winter dawn the light ceases,
the sun lifts and my hand falls
into shadow: this is February:
a season of dark, the winter wine -
when the water runs in ice, drops of blue
steel against the lip of cold. Our home
is laid beneath the snow; it surfaces
as if dawn were a hearty winter
run through the tracks laid bare
by deer or bears or even the jack-rabbit
on the run. These tracks run deep
and the heady rush of clear white-
crystal gorges my throat, reels me
against the wall; our
love is vanished in frosts of ash,
grey-charcoal gravel on the dirt road.
It can surface no more, and I know
that with dusk the leaves will blow over;
the wind will lift the sheen
from the blebs on the stream and we will
float onward downstream, together once more.
We will wash against rock,
and wait for spring; it will
come and our arms will be bare;
carrying a child of spring, or summer blossom,
seeds for Azalea and Hosanna
in the bright red sun - just the pull
of pale winter flesh, the underbelly of desire rattled in the sun.
Harmony of parts
Cells move with design, the cerebral, consonant-
flow is master, sheathes of grey dulse,
a sea’s salt answer, swerve magnetic fields
along axons & dendrites: a body’s sentence
sprawled in the weight of calcium, magnesium.
Bone of thought, bone of hearing,
bone of Denmark.
White-grey dulse spewed
again from intent’s breach
of isthmus on blood-channel. The white-basalt
churn of sound, unheard, below
a keen barrier. Cells with intelligence,
a road of vowel fragments
piece together an unheard reply.
“The body will heal if...”
And though the head turns, it is the last to hear,
too late in its clash of rage,
pushes against instinct, control
in the proton-rush. The jagged shell
of meaning found in the shattered column.
Words break down, and discs rearrange so as
to forge a mine deeper, somewhere below the line.
Half-missed syllables, misprisions of: “It is time”
Sound that feeds esophagus, gut, limb,
takes energy from its solid cark: brunt rejection.