Christmas, 2007 / No. 19


head, hamstrung

heart, she bends to the faun-smelling

earth for the comfort of dirt.

Were there no

real demons

she could quickly decide on light.

Wind clicks,

shadows split

and spill

through quirky trees:

Glyphs and sigils.

Sigils and glyphs.

The sun in her blood is not enough—

she leans to heliopsis,

Lenten rose;

sinks her fingers into the soil,

taps a glassy surface.

Slowly, over the hour,

works a window

out of the earth.

Soap veneered to its panes

congeals the view.