The words that rise from the bones
How the world turns away from the sun
But burns anyway in the end.
The mind, restless as the night,
Turns and turns, spins, pivots, flips,
Cold and hot, and will not sleep
On manacles forged in the mental fight.
The night is a day without day,
The cool distillation of light made dark,
Silence, a molten gold, when the sun
Burns too hot, and bends the ray
Of the moon on the pond. The wound
Has gone so deep no one can see
The cleaving of the mind, the dusting
Of bone and snow. And the wind
Rises and dies. Something cries on the hill,
Dead or alive, and the story of fire
And what we were survives the dark
For a while, both quiet and shrill.
20-21 February 2015