Tag Archives: winter

strings

Winter’s melting into the apartment

In the misty light, my insides warm and brassy
She and I lay in a heartbeat’s hibernation

She exists in telegraph bursts,
The moments between a switched flip and a bulb exploding to life.
From time before time, the question and the echo,
Ribbons and a kindling spark, heat and smoke and everything

The very zipper-teeth of her tumble over everywhen,
A hundred thousand backbone dice cast into the pit
Some lost to history, more stuck between the pages, others now

I’m rattling in the cup of the future, waiting to roll
I’m learning to be less present

I dreamed my mother’s eyes were taffy-stretched
Woven in forever knots through the skeleton beams of our unfinished house
I’m tangling more and more

The frayed ends of me wander, winding, riverlike
Crossing, curling, turning ever away toward her
Vibrating to her pulse–the waves and the warped

Winter is lifting

My breath rolls in like a stranger, and the heart wakes

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Blind shoots and wooden bones

Blind shoots and wooden bones
through the slow, sandy strata of time
wove through hidden mineral years and split trunks
searching arms to skeletons.

Twig and claw from a distance
the dime portrait of a great neuron
frozen forks of lightning in the blue clouds
soft cotton colors in the early evening.

Gentle and warm behind the bisection, no aid in illumination
the light breathed slow and bright around them.

A tin-can grey train
intermittently
battled with inertia like a great bear, grumpy and afraid
from its long hibernation
rolling, limb by limb, back into the waking world.

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Shakin’

Shake me ’til I freeze my bones
I am warm here, shakin’ on my own
Warmly I watch th’ ripples pass
The lull of the water is a magnifyin’ glass

Out of that stillness I’m a dying leaf
There’s no more life in a tree
Than what’s underneath

Here I’m shakin’, it’s divine
Won’t you come to my basement for a bottle o’ wine
Down in th’ dark we’re cozy and warm
Looking over the rooftops for a rollin’ grumblestorm

One of us has got to fly out there
Shake off those wings so I can watch you
Shake in the air

Back on the ground I will fly soft n’ low
Growin’ my patience; growing cold
Put your foot in my hand and we’ll look out o’er the lake
Stretch out your fingers and feel th’ muscles ache

Listen to the lapping it’s got to make your heart break
When all I can do is stand on a stump and shake

The roots share a secret with the damn ol’ docks
See ’em if you can see ’em from the back of a rock
Down in th’ dirt they were connected by time
Thinkin’ of leaves that they lost, climbin’ into the sky

I’ll come and find you and we can keep all our leaves
Between you and me we’ve got two up on the trees

Shake me in your arms and tell me there’s no mistake
Out in the storm or on th’ frozen lake
Here in th’ hold I can make my escape
Outta my bones and into yours I shake

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low thoughts

A staggering wind like drunkard heaving presses unwelcome against my mass.

What red infant’s fist unfurls the buds of leaves in the spring, and what bony talon rakes them into a rattling, dry death when the warm breath of fall whistles away into steel winter?

I remember pushing through walls of bodies in crowded streets and at events and during instances of urgent passing.

I am not entirely aware of myself. There are things I know: dimensions and lengths in units that make some rough sense of how I stick out into space. I have an idea of my appearance, and have studied my reflection vainly or with dissatisfaction from day to day.

All of this fails to come entirely to use when I attempt to steer myself sideways and slide, coated and careful and catlike, past an oncomer rushing opposite my direction. I mean no molestation, but there is an error in my awareness and the bulk of my great ship careens, victim to some careless undercurrent. Some belly, limb or ass failed to report its sum to the navigator and now we smush, crash, or sliiiide across the hull of our adversary.

“M’sorry” as I pick up speed, beating a hasty retreat, a practiced and well-worn tactic in escaping a distressing encounter.

I am in years just beyond the blind corner of thirty.

While I do not expect that I will ever die, I admit that an eventual end hangs around the front of my brain more often these days that when I was stumbling break-neck through those foetal days of teen-age and twenties.

Leaves fall with the imperceptible shattering of limbs. Did they know when they were green, or when they fought the sun for golden brilliance? What exhale of a sleepy god tells the leaves that their time has come?

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Marack Friesach

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