ISSUE: Autumn 1978
Through lace curtains—
ravens—
frozen in terror
of frost.
It’s the October whirling,
it’s terror
clawing, crawling,
up the steps.
Begging, sighing,
or groaning,
they all rise in unison
for October.
The wind grabbed the hands
of the trees—
they raced downstairs
to get wood.
Snow falls from their knees
as they enter
the store—It’s been so long
since we’ve met!
Did the snow, so often
trampled,
scatter from hooves
like cocaine?
The pain always comes back,
like foam on bits,
like wet salt in clouds, like sweat
on a headcloth.
