THE SENT

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
               mounds
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
   swaying
       like chicken bones
or hard veins

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

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