Through an accidental crack in the curtain I can see the eight o'clock light change from charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone, telling its tale of how hard the night had to be for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood no match for the mindless chill that's settled in, a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped on every window, its petrifying breath a cage in which all the warmth we were is shivering.
Untitled [Back they sputter]
Back they sputter like the fires of love, the bees to their broken home Which they’re putting together again for dear life, knowing nothing Of the heart beating under their floorboards, besieged here, seeking A life of its own. All day their brisk shadows zigzag and flicker Along a whitewashed gable, trafficking in and out of a hair-crack Under wooden eaves, where they make a life for themselves that knows No let-up through hours of exploration and return, their thighs golden With pollen, their multitudinous eyes stapled to a single purpose: To make winter safe for their likes, stack-packing the queen’s chambers With sweetness. Later, listen: one warm humming note, their night music.