The wind is grey with ice.
Frozen days rot from inside,
leaves are black with silence.
My long hours are unended,
part of me has been stolen at night.

The first snow waits to sweep
down from the blind hills.

as empty as a church at night
lost like a ring at a party
flat as a dutch road

and even if i snot up my cuffs
or flash a big toothy at the world

i will be as forgotten as this poem

Red ringed arms of leather
fail under the hot ring,
wax and feathers

weaken under the low-draft.
You're a shot bird, a soft hit
falling akimbo down to

the green wash, to the salty
glass of impact, a slip through clouds
for a mouth full of tide.

the moon dilutes
and frights brass-warmed stars, the
crab apples of your story

fall, so let me hide you in
a box under sticky earth.
You are eyeless and unsighted;

rain falls like dog's gravel
and all these short days
are scattered and running,

the wind pushes you aside

He is, he is;
The failure not to look
Into his room, his sheets
Cold as milk. Dust creeps.
Not to stop the mantra lips
Of heisdeadnichtwahr ?
The hunt for torn film,
For old winds and dried fruit.
Perhaps the glimpse around the
Next corner, he is, he is.

From my window the night is framed,
The stars thrown between the black.

Darkness turning through after-rain,
Grass that defends its green.

A moon dyed with henna
Falls behind the tree-line.
Frost cold as your hand;
O pull me down to the stones !

Rooks rise into the air
Like dust after a demolition.
An Autumn green with water

Pulls at me like an ignored child.
You are lost behind the Summer
Like spilled wine on a table

You run in chaos through linen.
It is late, and you sleep in the ground.