Читать книгу These Intricacies - David Harrity - Страница 10

What comes forward from darkened fields this winter? How long

can we deceive ourselves? Cold, true like a stray dog, nuanced

like a gossip’s words. Should we try to make it through another winter?

Drifts and pulp-white sweeps, sleet cuts into dirty snow—

we’re baubles packed in antique curios, rising early

to battered banks and crystal trees, teeth brushed white as winter.

Our mix—bitter bickering or loathing’s hollow swell. And when you

touch my hand in bed the only thing I know is how to melt away,

as you’ll return to his front door—shadowbox, weaving winter.

Constellations tell this one each night. Graffito fixed above,

ages spent retelling songs. The lie rehearsed till vivid and complete.

Corvus, fly away or hold your stupid tongue this winter.

Our minds arrayed in hail and damages—shut-ins to the storm

and servants to the haze. Choking down dull serial, swallowing

equal parts discomfort and disdain when we touch once all winter.

In the dusky park’s bright snow, I walk into the storm: frantic white,

orange lamp-lit prints, my squeaking boots. We are both

the pond and ice, both the street and filthy slush of moonless winter.

My body’s built of frozen earth and yours from mine. We’ve dressed up

our disgust with self-doubt. Incriminate myself again? I speak nothing,

wishing I could turn the bare skin of my back away from winter.