after a hoarfrost

you spend & spend
[waste & waste]
warmth into the empty air
where it cannot linger.

everything drops around you;
trees & sticks
barometers
birds, skies
seasons.

the world falls away
like this
branches from trees
like warm breath from a mouth.

a dun falcon is ushered away
by a cacaphony of ravens
their black fat bellies

their lawn strut &
the boredom of rot.

from trees they harass the sky
sit ponderous
the politic patrician gleam in their eyes
yes
it all
comes to a close
& a death
unwearied sharp beaks still on the whetstone
of the season of terminal chill.

the season slopes & spends grim into winter;
& this heap of fallen things into frost.

(no subject)

this house get slammed by the wind
a thousand thousand times a day.

whining, whirling, pushing in slipwise at the cracks. i wonder that wood and glass can withstand as much. every day i check but there are no trees close enough to the house to fall and cave in the roof over me. not unless the wind was enough to pick up violent windfall deadwood and run it over the housetops. i imagine belmont hospital, where plath and sexton and all the rest spent their quality time: i suppose it howls there, too. and i wonder what they thought of that.

faster supergirl kill kill

i get the feeling that i'm being pinned up as some sort of symbol, some thing greater than what i am. i am no superpower, no superior anything; no symbol.

i must be misrepresenting myself again because again doors are being shut in my face. avenues of words cut off.

every time i try to tell the truth i get in an awful lot of trouble.