Buried in spring, mounds flower:
first winter, desolation the season’s
prized import.
Strange custom that would
have us court our own demise.
Voyage stock still, blind as slow
weather in frozen straits:
horses pitch in frosty pasture
rake the air with loud hooves.
In the dank street where girls look away,
music round tall chimneys.
Light splinters fog
lifted rushes flare
birds tumble like ashes in the rattling sky.