The snow’s wind puts waves across the lake, these black-torn crimps. Down their throats the snow, lashes wild. You cold? he says, waiting on her. I think we’ll die, she answers. Her mitten hangs from the sleeve, her eyes the color of some much better place. But he does touch her shoulder once, the leaves do gutter in the tree.
Inward come geese the flatted lake. Out the smoke the shell of reeds.
We thought the crow was wire and snow.
The day-white blood. The heart-stroke air.
The Kinder Child
The room grays in light, gray cat, gray music, gray buddha, gray god, the fallen starlight, the fallen man, gray window, gray wind, the risen starlight, rising light, gray sun, gray light.