The winter sticks
Into the eye of the earth
Her mouths chatter
Cold as an Icelandic nurse
One has
Dark brown bark
Like the letter I
Broken in half
On the white page
I do not feel
The snows scissor pins in my hands
Next
Comes the footprints
Around the dead grey green scrub
Enclosed
By a black magicians curtain
Of memories deep well
There’s not a face
O love
In this picture
There is a mother
Mysteriously blue
In the poverty kitchen
And a Gremlins outline
As black as soot
Who returns each night
From Teutonic fires
I have
The eyes of a blackbird
As I sit in the old straw stuffed chair
Flitting my boy flesh
Wanting to sing
In the starlit room
A beautiful poem on a aspect we don’t observe
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