Startling doves out of red pines.
Metal teeth biting
falling flake
half a mouse
ice drip
Cast iron on a wood fire.
Hearing voices in the saw - the vet sez my cat is "mad" - would that be mad as in the neighbour wandering in red robe snatching at reality fluttering grey and wispy past smoke-filled eyes?
No, no, this is just pain that won't let one eat or play. In other words yes.
In the village the colour of the month is
Morning Dew.
Snow four feet up the
telephone pole.
Strings of stars run down glitter dropping onto cabin roof
mounds of snow pines all 'round;
belt of orion snagging the night tree, it's sandy and solid
an igloo it would build full of long ago
and gone.
We don't fear death, we fear the not being here.
A purr louder than a bulldozer in their brains rolling over houses and homes and prairies and watersheds and Devonian shale,
when it's Flat then we cam Build again.
With a fetish for nylon and bunnyfoot and string, she curls up in a sleeping bag with paws over face.
being followed by an ice shadow
