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Some Notes Beginning With Winter


The winter

inclined to speak loudest

in a heated room

at 5am

with vague sleep-shapes

painting the walls

like demons

with teeth

but no jaw strength,

filtering as always

at 5am

a complex reality

through a single

sleepless eye

like drinking

an ocean

from a fast-food straw.


*


The winter

draws nearer her sex

like an overripe fruit

to my grass

below,

that always anticipates

in these late months

the body’s need for warmth

and gravity’s misinterpreted laws.


*


The winter

is a blind mother

stumbling over

the corpses of her children,

the crackling

and popping of skulls

and ribs underfoot.


She’s clinging to the balustrade

for balance

the entire length

of a never-ending river

she knows only as ice.


*

 

The winter

places its ear to my chest.

Then to hers.

Then its own.


And I ask aloud

to the morning

“are there nuances

to our wailings?”




John Sibley Williams