there the wood sorrel grew last

the snow will sustain, the rest of the afternoon,
before the evening breaks its pink blood in to
squid and indigo, and the tablet count
will fall out
sheet
after sheet from the unwritten book,
the
new dead and the un-reined horse,
all ghosts of a season discarded
now held up like glass to the light by
young words and in a cruel infant vernacular
spread by snickering into
old phone trees, tossed aside
for dust off bees wings as
each head looks for the next gum drop
the homonym
community, where there is never
a haunting below zero degrees, where the hands
break through human skin and grab
each candy cellophane of heat
to let loose the mind
from the ferocity of the present enemy
a moment turned to face the steel charts of
clause and indemnity.