Snow Shoes

Your skin is leisure that I touch
Breaks like the spindle that I live from.
Lover December, your countenance is the door
Behind which I am held in rapture.
Held the grains.

Of all I cannot remember. I choose not to see
How strangely they grow wings, and breed.
How they have flourished, while those sickly
Bones I planted failed to seed. Yours,
Teeming out from beds of stranger's, through the eyes
I hold them back, those blank invaders
Pupils blown like stones thrown in the foxhole
That I pray in. Mary, Mary

Would you please excuse the actions, of which I am wary?
Would you catch the blood in butter
Cups? the April flowers - that have grown to spite
My purging winter.
My brick shoe, the snow boot of your armies. Can i stand?
One legged, glaring into your
Evil eye - under the quickening moon

We are divided, dissected for our parts,
On kitchen tables, the blood dries; it is ink for the moths
And the wine flies. I am drunk on river water,

We have our own ways of thinking, when I climb
The gallows you climb the alter.
When I sleep you touch the
Fragile sky of heaven.

I reach through your sky and I devour
The god you speak of,
His blood is pale, it showers
From the blue and feeds the orchids.

On your bed, the land of ashes,
You see this fire does not burn, it quenches?
I have only been. Been you, I’ve been before
And after. Behind each and every door, in every mirror.
In the bed of your old age. You spent your life as I did
Picking seeds from the floor of the dove cage.