What do we make
of love in December?
charcoal smears across
there will not be enough time
to archive and organize,
finally there will not be enough time.
Unsent letters, long since
unwritten nonsense piled
in teetering pyres, writing unlit
on burned paper making
lumbering waves into blackened
edges. We cold unlock the cipher,
decide on a substitutionary atonement,
look past the end of ink...
what's past the burned edge?
What of the poetry of love? Perhaps
love would have been better plagiarized
without it all, a guy in a pasture,
sheep, a dog, and he's lying under the stars,
unreason for some, we include a silent army now,
a pair of silent armies...
January will come again, regardless
of all today's broken things-
with head down, shoulder leaning,
that muscle pain somewhere in your body that
tells you love is. And then you know
January will collapse in your mouth.
And then what will the old skin do,
with its charcoal logging?