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ISSUE:  Winter 1976
Now at your first word
its interior is dissolving
into deep gold, haze
your eyes can steady on. Steady,
the far fields squat & stretch
rounding towards summer;
lake flies film your stare.

And here you are:
another spring torn off
your life asking you nothing —
the thorn tree shaped by winter
into an angel’s wing turned back
into a thorn tree in white heat
& the little gods crawl up into the air.


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