It was winter then as it is now,
when ghosts emerge with the quick dark.
I wanted to swallow the stars,
dark-pointed and smelling of anise.
I wanted to put away for good those old
angers I thought I’d dispatched.
They flickered, elusive as ever
—though not as powerful.
When next I looked, only small
brown birds picking through gravel.
I’d seen that dirty mirror before, rubbed
its edges with the corner of a sleeve.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- After Apocalypse
- Déjà vu
- Dear Life,
- Full-mouthed, furled, yellow:
- In the grove
- Burning the Wishes
- Ghazal, with Piano Bar in Winter
- Strange fur, this fine
- Cold Snap
- What I wanted to say
- In fallow season
- Dream Metonymy
- Ash Wednesday
- Mouth Stories
- Zuihitsu for G.
- [poem removed by author]
- Nuthatch calls to nuthatch, wren to wren—