Sunday, January 31, 2016

The Magic Lantern's Hand Painted Slide

I was dirty 
so I turned to my pillow and tried to cry it out,
but I was not cleaned.

No amount of water could scour deep enough;
no poem exfoliated my soul abrasively enough;
my lover, my parents, my children - they besotted me, i besotted them.

I was dirty, so I slid outside like a splinter.
Frozen into the ice beside the dirty road was an orange.
The whole day breathed brighter then.

Saturday, January 30, 2016

Buddha says, house? what house?

For a good solid couple decades (bundle them tightly together with twine) the pigeons had harbour in a derelict house, the roof pleasantly wabi-sabi.

I cast about in what seemed a limitless sea of grief, destitute for the pigeon's house after the town's officials discreetly loaded the last cornerstone and carried it off like gravel.

Now the pigeons house themselves out through my second floor window, wheeling between rafters, unfettered.

Friday, January 29, 2016

9 p.m. january, war

i was leaving my friend on her stool against the black sky, the city lit behind her through her large living room window. in recent years she had shrunk to the size of a little bird, black flecked and maybe a little less quick. she was a warm grain of sand. and she trembled.

we had talked ourselves through, as women are wont to do, the epics of love and war.

she trembled again on her stool.

outside and around her shoulders like a penumbra, pulsed the reality of world.

so, she said, reminding herself, as though becoming equipped for war (she counted them off on each wing): love hard; and sell nothing.

Thursday, January 28, 2016

white, black, red

watch the fire inside the wood box. the wood burns. i yearn for the fire which needs no wood, no stove. i watch and yearn, watch and yearn. gather bits of your name, tinder.


wiping my mouth on the back of my hand i think of how all winter long i have scrutinized the wide white fields dreaming of your skin.


spring cracks open. violets rend the soil. insects hover. i wipe my brow and scratch my skin. the frenetic heat of the honey bee makes me anxious for a sweet sip.


to hell with every barrier between us. i coax the blood swelled mosquito which fed on you, onto my naked body.


desire is a pitcher of goat's milk between us.


growling sable, crouching through the grasses of the Serengeti, it uses the map of my body to prowl, its appetite immense, its muscles tireless, its target - the one who smells exactly like you.


rubicund is the barn. musky, the animal. steam comes from our noses.


winding myself through the gay old arguments of phenomenology and ontology, remembering your two beautiful hands sure upon my beautiful morning hair pulling me toward your beautiful lap, i make aloud that sound which may or may not be beautiful.


desire is fundamental, the lexicon of planets and moons, a sentence's structure, the lunar longing to pull you into me with the unequivocal dark power - like the black noun longs to pull the red verb inside it.

"the pomegranate" suggests: is out there, on table, in bowl, that light touches contours, but nature lies. "the pomegranate" is: in here, moist with darkness, broken open. is me. is hive. you eat fruit's meat like a ravaged carnivore.


there was an opera, a murder. there was a blood letting upon the moon white pillow. my breasts swelled. the chauntress quivered and strangled her skirts. the audience gasped. afterward, when they rose and rebuttoned, they stammered, it's love.


i invite you in. you sit down. we have coffee. we draw up documents. the sun is high. there are things that matter. but you and i spill the coffee again, mar the papers, set the window on fire.

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

the body seeks

the body seeks

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

drinking fire

remembering the weight of 
their mother's milk full breasts
children throw snowballs


the shock of black fur
enters the throat like crows 
unable to complete roosting


the body which was light
once erupted from stone
wants to find its way back 


a dark figure crosses a white field
a nude body blinds with pure light
children throw snowballs as they run


at night we dream of taking 
strangers with our names
deeply into ourselves 

Monday, January 25, 2016


because your life is yours
it carries your speed
your inertia

if your soul wears a purple muumuu
then there you are standing in a crowd 
stunningly obvious
grey shirt, grey slacks—

your life comes ashore at your feet

sometimes you dream of the fields
on the other side of this thing which is you—
you can't go there

but you're not here
the invisible grizzled particles of air hiss through heliotrope

or, if you are, you are ocean like us

Saturday, January 23, 2016

a portrait of a mother and her child, and skin pouch

*artwork by joanne

i'm afraid that words might act against the profound intuition of this charcoal drawing, or perhaps in my sloppiness or desperation i have chosen poorly...

once i wrote of my children, please forgive me for what i am about to do / i am about to live alongside you.

i am always and utterly at the mercy of this connection.  

skin pouch

the way the midwife obliterates with the anorak face
to shelter you with the tale of faith -  
this is but a bird bone's prick
the stretching of a moment in time - or a line - 
we'll use the friction of your mind to light the kudlik
then with fire - the first slit
after all We made the uluit -
what's natural will tear to form

now the ivalu! 
                    that's you - the sinew.

(*anorak is an Inuit coat with a wide hood usually trimmed in fur which (because of its glossy nature) aids in ice and snow being easily shaken away. a traditional Inuit sewing needle might have been made from of a bird's bone. the kudlik is a crescent shaped cup of carved soapstone, filled with whale or seal blubber, used as a lamp or as a heating source. uluit (plural) or ulu (singular) is a woman's knife used for skinning, cleaning animals, cutting food, trimming blocks of snow or cutting a child's hair. ivalu is the thread used to sew a garment. it is animal sinew, usually caribou.)

Friday, January 22, 2016

east to west

in the morning
i am hungry for fasting

in the evening
i want meat

by bed
i am praying for forgiveness

so passes the heart of mankind

Thursday, January 21, 2016


tōgarashi / omoikonasaji / mono no tane
                                                           ~ Bashō 

i keep a chestnut
in the breast pocket of my secondhand leather jacket
when i picked it i thought of, i don't know why, my mother

the last time my first husband and i made love
i knew my womb, because of my mind, was tipped at such an angle 
that no seed would germinate - there

this is also a true story
our children and i collected acorns to use for a project we had not yet imagined
they exploded into maggots all over the floor

(the red pepper / i do not belittle / seedlings)

Wednesday, January 20, 2016

on why i decided to postpone the call to the doctor's office, jan 11

it's ok. there's plenty of time. we can die tomorrow.

i've always wanted to try ginger on chicken. i put the chicken on the counter to thaw.

the fresh snow outside has made a new world again.

my body wants all kinds of things. one of them is ginger chicken. also, to move in fresh snow. to be warm flesh away from cold. to live.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

to perceive piercingly with the heart, and notes on three men

i want to see sadly
no no not sadly i want to see
see how sadly i want
to see -
      i want


three men

one. the man in the passport office. unable to understand the attendant. unable to hear. unable to sit. unable to stand. unable to walk. unable to explain why his name is spelled with two different spellings. withers. wither. half the family with an s. half the family without. possessive? plural? angry at one side? which side? what is a side? which was the original? the man in the passport office going where? what would it matter? his feet in italy? his feet in brazil? germany? poland? he can't walk. his ears? will he go to hear his family's stories? his history? he can't hear. it takes him three years to walk out the door in silence.

two. the man downtown. the building which was - yesterday! - solid. which had concrete steps! which had metal bars! which held groceries in '63. which held drunks in '80. which held loiterers upon the steps until it was boarded up some weeks ago. the man downtown standing in the lot. the man a soft silhouette in black. a puffy coat. an angled hat. standing in the rubble. concrete and metal bent and pulverized. concrete and metal holding within its unabiding assortment the secret. forevermore. to its form.

three. the man who lives upon another continent. who wades through water. who hefts stone. who lays red berries to a colander of grasses. who stakes his heart on thorns of tides. you might say land-art quickly. but then you would be missing the story of the man. the vestiges of human saga. you might miss the fact that a man has lived. is living. that a man dies. is dying. that we're all standing in waves and rubble. with ambiguous names. in excruciating surrender.

A Poem Of Moderate Temperature

On the way, my father absently heaves his coffee dregs
and there the black line of ants will freeze,
black veins skeined upon the farmer's wide sweep.

Corralled, she between the trees as broad as men,
her eyes balk back behind her steam -
one last stain falls from her rear end.

The high strained arc cuts the good air clean
and the poleaxe, as it gleams,
perfects its mark - there.

By night
we will eat meat
which tastes of meat - not grass.

Monday, January 18, 2016

aging with implications, notes

through the streets in my worn frock and layers of comfortability. my high socks sagging. do they pity me? no worse. better. they don't see me. my neck hanging now like the kitchen muslin over the half eaten treat (all minds bent toward the treat). who thinks the rose is a rose? who is mad enough to think that a stone is really silent? - who has realized that always the essence keens forward in its hiding? i am here. lurking in plain sight. liberated. i am without what they impress upon me. delighting in the air. i am free.

Sunday, January 17, 2016

i keep images of myself

for instance, on a train
the old kind which no longer exists
with a secondhand suitcase
leather, bound with a strap

my sister sends a letter
detailing all of her 
major minor tragedies
and asks me to play along

i have to pull through 
the other side 
of my happiness

but when i pull them all forward
all of the corpses and rotting fish
i'm surprised to see 
that the landing is teeming

so i go to my images

in one i have a neat house
with only a few sticks of furniture
in another, i'm bent and writing
in a third, i'm desirable

i've been carrying a copy of dante's inferno
but i haven't read from it yet
instead i'm involved in the little tale
called the black spider

i never know where i'm headed while on the train
but when i'm on it, i'm safe

The Lost Child Decides

The mother loves the child and the child loves the mother
but one day the mother is distracted by her own heart, caught like cotton
upon the delicate burred sleeves of blouses in Kresge's department store.

The child, lost among nearby limbs, the wild percussions of metals and sawings of wheels,
is blinded by the cold white electric stars overhead and the blank of cold tactility
sprawling stone-like below and cruelly sheening.

The child never forgives the mother—

except when they are, once again, sunken into one skin.
Then, in the refuge, in the profundity, home is blaringly everywhere.

But everywhere else when the child's skin becomes her own sight-blinding horizon
and the mother has vanished again,
it is as it was for Nietzsche, the mother is dead.

Friday, January 15, 2016

being you, and notes from a run

troublesome, yes, to be you. what if you were the sky. how would? how could you see yourself? what if you were earthbound. a pebble. a stone. a boulder. the canadian shield. how might an alvar note its nose. might it reach and stroke a rib. would it know itself then more than you who walks upon it. who walks upon it with your legs. who uses your mind to reach along the fissures. to smooth out words along its torso. words like limestone. liberation. or limit. what if you were but now. a flake of a shape. a piece of the network of forever.


yesterday i ran out of town. i ran through the snow and cold. poorly. my body was heavy. the snow was thick. or it was slush. and it was difficult to advance. and so i gave my body permission to be poor. act poor. be honest. suffer the lack of friction. suffer the pain of the cold. only cover the distance. and be inside of that covering.

as i ran i thought about what it is to love of winter, for i love it as a farmer might love his crops, his sustenance. as an artist must love their paints, their charcoal, their camera. winter. incomprehensible. sacred. where here meets infinitude. never does the negative form have such bounty. nothing else appears so well in its negation. except perhaps a woman who has pulled her sweater from her back after a day's labour. a man who has removed his glasses to rub his eyes to see more clearly.

wittgenstein's tractatus culminates in this sentence,  "What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence." winter opens this possibility. is this possibility. were he a poet perhaps he would have ended his treatise with one word, winter.

this (more or less) i wrote in a note when i returned home,

on my way home at the top of the largest hill, a Mennonite wagon passed me heading for town too. two men. one older and one a very young man. they had their coats drawn up to their faces. it was bitter cold. (my hair was frozen all around my scarf and face like an additional scarf whipped solid.) then nearer town as I crossed the bridge they were coming toward me this time, returning home from town. our eyes met. their faces were purple! their eyes straining. their voluptuous blue faux fur collars were doing very little to protect them. we all faced one another on that bridge and understood something then. something. that can't be uttered. I cry now to think of it.

i bring it here to remember it. i must remember it. through that cold and the distance traveled there was a point of suffering where we met. and there, existed, absolute kinship.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

why it hurts to have a disabled tongue, notes

Intelligence, oh give me
the precise name of things!
...So that my word might be
the thing in itself,
newly created by my soul.
Let those who have no knowledge
of things, reach them through me;
through me, may all those,
who forget things reach them;
even those who love things,
let them approach them through me...
Intelligence, oh give me
the precise name, and your name
and theirs, and mine, for all things!

by Juan Ramón Jiménez

translated by Salvador Ortiz-Carboneres 


at 7 i am a bleary window.

by 9 my eyes begin to open. focus.

by 11 i trust the world is fine. but i am a smudge of red, vibrating.

by 1 i am mad. mad. mad.


in the precise moment, after my water broke, before the crown of the stranger would move through me, the one articulated and fed from me as source, i was 1 pm.


but now i have no skill. i have neither entrance nor exit. i have neither skull nor push. i have neither fontanelle nor crown. what i have is a splash of cells laid to a slide beneath a microscope.  

panicked for life, i feel the desperate swell of dying.

the stranger who moves through me now is both myself and the other one. 

we are each looking through the microscope. and we have each been dissected.

could i but reach out. could i but touch. one thing. one word. one sure. right. word.

what then would i do?

i make deals. behave. walk well. tell many others with a level voice.

but i'm lying.

i would grab the word like a baton. and i would bash open the world.

instead, let my ribcage be broken

perhaps it is really only a literature i want to acquire.

for acquiring the thing is clearly to not have it.

for years orchids have existed. have exercised their gills. in their tumbling veils. in their seductive whispering. in the houses of others able.

but now, this poor orchid in my house...

poor creature. poor broken winged dove. poor unrealized bloom of flower. i have broken you inside the container of me.

Wednesday, January 13, 2016

is this hell, being caught here in the sensuousness of a moment? a question from reisterdam

she thought her heart (read, mind) must be from some alien species. outside the morning winter light was already touching everything, peacefully. but she was overstimulated. like a child on too much sugar. she thought she might weep or pee her pants if she found no other outlet. and soon. 

she was being haunted by Wittgenstein --- this much was obvious.
a horse pulling a small Mennonite wagon trotted by. how very lucky she was that this happened. that the world was white. that the horse was dark. that the wagon was black. that the cold held the warmth from the horse's nostrils and threw it to the sky, a bounty of cloud; upon the tip of its formation already the birth of its dispersal. the sound of the wagon laid a line down the center of the street. then rose through the air like spectral black birds and turned left. it met her fingers on the glass at the window. it entered her flesh and wound through her bloodstream until it penetrated her mind like a hand extended. or a memory thought. or the first sound ever shod. she couldn't believe the excruciating excess of the world. it hurt. but thank god for essentials.

her hands. her hair. she would brush her hair...

then the wagon wended left.

and she clutched to the remaining windowsill.

growing time between the seconds

it used to be that i didn't believe in being careful. the world in all its various parts was a book of matches in my frenzied fingers.

now i believe in being careful. 

carefully i sit and stare at the book of matches. 

carefully i open it. 

carefully i withdraw one. 

carefully i strike

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

cracked and consumed and breaking together, notes from christmas

cracked and consumed

my daughter is extremely lazy in giving her gifts. if laziness might have weight in its inverse power my daughter would be as heavy as a monolith. she has given me gifts (last minute) such as scraps of paper for bookmarks. bent pieces of wire or tin. once a magnet, a folded up piece of vagrant wrap, empty.

and she tests me later to make sure i have valued and cherished these contortions. these attempts at assessment. (hers? mine?) these challenges.

this christmas she cracked a walnut and then with great effort (her hand so heavy) offered me the two pieces of shell. here... christmas... (couldn't exactly muster the merry) for you and james.

the meat of the walnut was being ground to sumptuousness in her wet mouth to feed her voluminous body. the shell - a valuable tribute i retain on the living room's main shelf, an testament to the meat of her spirit which exercises me and all it comes into contact with. perfect gift. perfect emblem. beautiful cracked wholeness.


breaking together

one of the most important events of our lives just passed between us. over my mother's blond kitchen table. under the pull-cord lights.

i was. for fun. drunk again. (second time this year! this christmas season!) one or two drinks doing the trick. causing all inhibitions to run shrieking like farm women to the barns to get the hidden rifles.

but then my mother called me to it. my mother called me into seriousness. to recount the story i told her about to warn her off her quick responses. the story about the van and my co-worker. fears. judgements. hatreds. the muslim men and their christmas wishes.

as i told the story i was amazed that the story held together in more than one telling. the words came out of me like little bricks and we watched them form upon the table. not knowing. as i told it. what they would build.

my son watched what accrued there in the kitchen light. he looked time to time at my mouth. and then back to what was forming.

and as the story happened. as when it was happening to me. as i discovered what was happening - i was moved with extreme emotion to the point of barely containing myself as a human.

my son watched me. he watched what formed. i could see him located a quarter of the distance around the round table. my mom a quarter more. and my step-father the last quarter. static. waiting. he was watching what i said. but at the same time he was watching every other injustice he had ever witnessed gaining body. and, upon a moment, my son's beautiful face pulled and contorted. my son's beautiful face swelled. became overwhelmed. and broke with anguish.

and so passed one of the most important events of our lives together.

Monday, January 11, 2016

a thirst for red

you've dashed to the corner store again, plumes of exhaust phantasmic in the cold winter air,
seductive. everything seductive. earlier the way the grey portly bird plucked the red
berries from the branches. what could you want? what might anyone imagine?
you looked like an old lady when you headed out for your run, your face was 
so nondescript you laughed, your toque contorting your name's tableau. yet afterward, 
plumped and feathered, fresh from a shower, even the young native man
with the sparse hair over his lip stops and stares and begs through all the bodies
busy about their business at the counter, to make contact, to please, look, then stare, 
let the eyes exchange the tokens. (his eyes are small, there, now, fast, 
ready to dash like a doe, trembling.) only you know you are nothing, it seems, 
as other men, in a consecutive order indecipherable, notice something estrous, some scent. 
only you know you are nothing. old woman. crone. hag. yet when you stood
at the brink of the road, the trees laden with snow, to stretch and take in 
the suddenness of red berries, the portly bird which called you 
called you because you were known, known as deeply as its thirst for red.

a new year, naked, notes

one wants, very badly, to enter the new year naked.

but man cannot be naked for his skin and mind are cloaks too heavy.


so we waited. until we were alone. in the faulty house which wasn't faulty at all. no heating. no toilet. no hot water. but walls by which to hold us as one. a bedroom. and light. so we made a small holy circle. and we were quiet. and we touched one another. and we held words in our mouths like stones until we could hold them no longer. out from our mouths the world was built with them. artifacts. from a god. who never left us.


how we wept with the pleasure. how we wept with the pleasure of saying. not in mundane terms. but in terms that rode the skin of our mouths. and in terms that rode the skin of our minds. the skin of our bodies thus rising and trembling with touch. say skylarks and scraws. say gristle. say frochan. flood your mouth with billberry root. say gossamer wings, sphagnum moss, curlew calls. say alleluia. alleluia.

the white winter light was made golden as we touched. as we touched and read the poem.


 Rain Falling In The Far West by John F. Deane

I am standing, old and self-absorbed as Lear,
out on bogland, where I started;
there are skylarks, pipits, black-monk crows and plover, secret in the heathers, calling; dried blood
on the scraws, gnawed gristle,
furred creatures cowering, the raptor hawk;
where have I been, all these years, far from myself?
Soft rains drift in mist-shapes
shading everything to grey; I would hear the voices
of those I have loved and lost, I standing now on the brink.
Of Aquinas at the last they said
that he was laying down the instruments
of his writing; what I have done
feels like turf-dust. What is there left, but spirit?
Rain is falling in the far west, as it has ever fallen.
Easy to miss the star against the city lights
and shoppers; here, on bogland, is a side-aisle quiet, where nothing extraordinary happens, where you may accept
emptiness and the cotton-quivering
of a solitary self; here, too, the harrier is close, what is eternal
hovers, it is the dread festival of God's descent
into the flesh, his presence
in the ongoing history, heart in hiding, forever
beginning. The night is still and clear under frost, great clouds
passing, slow, relentless; an ocean-full
of stars, a cradle moon, and in the windows of the houses
candles lighting; sweet shiver-glass of ice
on the bogpools, and one great light reflecting.
Wild honey hides among the combed roots, in the dark
it scents the air. Childheart,
I was told the bleak mythologies of black-bog waters: the giant otter in the pools, black-souled goblin with his storm lamp,
and Clovenhoof himself, ready to reach
a leathery claw out of mud to take your ankle; there would be
fear, and fascination, there would be danger, stumbling, a fall.
In the far west rain is falling; there is epiphany
in the movement of a fox, long-fellow, sleek, a languid
lovely-loping, orange-brown body slipping through
brown-orange growth; in the soft
dew-gentled dawn, the spread-out jewellery of gossamer webs
shivers silver in destructibility;
the heathers, too, ripple in the breeze, like water.
I put my ear down close to the bog-earth
roots, to hear
the heartbeat of the magma; there are no hard edges in the peatland,
no table-corners,
cupboard-doors, car-boot-sharpness; I am in love
with earth, the various, the lovely, though
it is not home: for it is written—
God so loved the world ... I stand
on the wallow-surface of belief, winds from the sea
taking my breath away;
the paths across the bog lead always on
further into bog, then
stop. Nowhere. Where God is.
Here is no locked tabernacle; God exults, in frochan,
bilberry root. Here is no church, stone-built,
no steeple proud in its piercing of the skies; sometimes a dragonfly, its rainbow gossamer wings, passes by
low over the cottons; I can kneel
on sphagnum moss, its soft green sponge, to ask forgiveness
because resurrection is ongoing; curlew calls, alleluia; and still
all of the bogland is in motion, bleached bones
of elk and wolf and hare, rising inexorably towards the surface.
Bell rings for angelus, the stooping figures rise and stand a while
in the transept of eternity. Rain
is falling in the far west, as it has ever fallen; in the windows
candles lighting;
what is there left, now, but spirit?

Sunday, January 10, 2016

Sex With Squid

Because I can't hug a black bear
I turn to my husband and wrap my arms around him.
Agog in my living room for my fir tree at Christmas 
I'm suddenly sauced with sense
and remember things such as pine pitch, and turn 
instead, on my couch, toward my trusty beloved.
Because God's robes are so gibbous
I take, succinctly, my scrawny man 
into my hands.
How hot I grow for the hive and all that honey
come summer. It's a good thing I wear a ring.
I buzz home zealously over the fields
tearing my yellow chemise and sun-hot chignon 
on thistles, screaming, husband, 
get down the stairs!
It's time to crack the hive and eat the golden!

Saturday, January 9, 2016

storm, notes

there's a storm coming. this information, not knowledge unless/until it happens, creates clouds of energy snaking all around each body in this small town. in these small towns. all along the corridor of this highway. and out into the great pulverized prairies of unknown, which is known, it is true, through each eyeball. i consider not allowing this. i consider moving inside the world without this energy. i practice touching. not touching. this information. i think of cavafy's "ithaka". i think, the snow will fall/ or not fall. regardless. small snakes and zaps rise along my sweater seams and then extinguish themselves. i put my mind to bed. tuck the blankets. wait for nightfall. no. don't wait. nightfall comes when it comes. and the snowfall. as it does. chooses. no. not chooses. but comes. as it comes. or does not. or finally does.

somewhere, this is a fact, i have a shovel. but right now i am reading.

Thursday, January 7, 2016

and they worried you'd amount to nothing

 it's been six weeks    since you stole the apples    from the farmer's field

the mind of your muscles    still knows    the climbing of the fences
the running

your hands yet remember    the delectable circumference

your sweater still holds    theburrs

your mouth    your mouth has known such

you have eaten    every one of those apples
even the brown ones

and loved them.

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

after absence

this has been written before. this will be written again. this is being written towards our infinity.

Dead center 
the pale and limitless landscape
the god leans upon the alabaster
stropping the strap,
honing the selected horizon.
This is the bone of the homunculus
he's fashioning into a wing.

He fastens one pearl
with a sash of opalescence,
a sopping jewel as the eyepiece
to see from at each end of the body.
Here the waters of desire lap
as large as the mutating universe,
as concise as a pinprick.

Sunday, January 3, 2016


   wind, one animal the whole species with its pelage erect at the dangerous angle,
critical to notice how it's cocked, the grim, enduring fury that is its steady state of rapture,
black body obliterated to white, hoar now it is, terrible rhetorical thirst and hunger
suspended in the midst of pelting ice, suspended and cocked and dangerous,
suspended and thinking, suspended and waiting, indolence and fury at once, the core
of the wild storm, no, not capable of thought, january wind, silence like gemstones
embedded into gusts, ratcheted first month, our wind, our squall, our mightily driven 
and dependable, our january, our called upon, our riving necessity time and time again.


   wind, one animal the whole species 
with its pelage erect at the dangerous angle,

critical to notice how it's cocked, the grim, 
enduring fury that is its steady state of rapture,

black body obliterated to white, hoar now it is, 
terrible rhetorical thirst and hunger

suspended in the midst of pelting ice, 
suspended and cocked and dangerous,

suspended and thinking, suspended and waiting, 
indolence and fury at once, the core

of the wild storm, no, not capable of thought,
january wind, silence like gemstones

embedded into gusts, ratcheted first month, 
our wind, our squall, our mightily driven 

and dependable, our january, our called upon, 
our riving necessity time and time again.

(*not sure which form i prefer...)