I am pacing
with him 
                once more
in Mary’s graveyard
   on the icy hill
         in a cold
clear night

        the city shines
   in the valley
like tepees

I whistle
of luminous snow
   creep in the wind
          like flesh trying
to come back

        I lean on arms
thin as grass

          stars glint
in black oak trees
       like chicken bones
or hard veins

of the darkening ranges
                 a copter
          red light
    on the thorax
                 like a heart

I am hooded
   in heavy boots
        my dog Peter
tracking thru drifts
        and glassy earth
        brown bare
around the stones

Last modified 1 July  2007
© David Lyttle 1981, 2007