A window traces the night where a sleeper lies.
The air is winnowed by a stranger, he has come
To a barren field by the sea, scathed by winter,
Stained by the tedious pilgrimage of snow.
Barefoot, he stands, in a narrow crack of light
Sloped seaward to a cliff plunge, fed upon by whitecaps;
Odors of frozen earth arise, burnished by ice-
The dead snails leave a silver track.
High against the moon shadows, gull wings bend muted
Over tidal-flats where the ghost of a child played
Silent and cold, old memories bedded in mud;
Her youthful days ended, rusting like a scythe.
Shovel squatting grim as a sea witch at coffin’s border
In wait amid snarled wind and crack of wave
To trap the wayward stiff at a move of temper and disdain,
Now with flint eyes he digs deeper, fixed upon a dream.
Plucked from a deep sleep, curtained with graying lace,
A milky mist of bone and skin into a worm bottle-
Forbidden thoughts like weedy mussels pocked white,
Frigidly stiff on a windowsill, garbage of dust.
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