This Place of Scraps
Winter wastes nothing. Even the fleshes petrified by frost find a home in the empty
belly of time. Unearthed by sun to become myth someday, and I should be happy
to have my bones so repurposed and realized.
Even so, our house beneath the earth groans for more. The inner workings fill
with a predatory hunger. We speak of what we have from what has been taken,
await completion like the offerings of empty-handed wise men.
And of firmament and soul. Patterns reassemble earth into bridge. There is a crossing,
just there, where the monument has fallen. Let’s orchestrate language next time
to resemble how it was, if it was.
The windfall of apples, of which there is no trace. Even the red that was our blood
licked clean and converted into energy. Winter is hardly enough to believe in tomorrow.
Still I hang from the branches of a tree that might not be there.
And as if we weren’t born into that death, we’ve written in the snow a word that means god
and another that means nothing and another for winter. Shuffled among them, already thawing,
I should be happy to be told: in the beginning, as the end, there was only this.