A peek at a draft of a new poem I’ve been working at. Enjoy.
COLD SPRING SONG
a fist, made and then un-made. your
jeans pocket, worked, like some barely
recollected friday night, its empty cases and
mis-steps; its dark seaming, formlessness.
and that knuckle you fractured years back?
it’s now a bone-forked tine just struck, now
tuning this unseasonably jarring april day, its
chill sleet music, with each exposure to the
gelid air. your re-knit joint first ringing
slip-shrill as a new-shattered icicle against
some nerve’s tin roof; an ice staccatoed
treble splintering. then, simply: nothing.
then, ache. deep thrumming, a slushed-
marrow pang pulsing the base edge of your
hand; the face of a roughly cobbled stone
wall struck, over and over again. again
a fist, made and then un-made.