Whatever was seized, was seized,
gripped and crunched in Time’s pulsing arms,
and the letters I have woven, and sent,
they may now flutter down,
for visions are grass blades
grown in a night,
liable to die at frost, and roll up like dough;
the gods bake them, on racks
of flaming hands outstretched, and December
is a goat man falling old, standing
behind my hunched form, guiding these fingers.
I’m sketching the symbols I’ve learnt in a line
that will lead to another year; rivers
don’t quit rivering, and as a servant girl
I’ll perform my chore, and as
the Porcupine Caribou start planning their walk
to their Summerland
I do watch the snow drifts outside sink as bodies
into a concrete sea.
The rotation is nearly done.