a desire for victuals

[ a desire for victuals ]

First the accident of snow then its music
                                       the so-called outside
                                                  condition pretends
comfort. Is she wearing her herringbone sweater
even now? What I see is nothing
known                 as breath, a
           flowering shrub with ink-dark spasms the flowers
are white and borne in erect clusters in early spring as the leaves are
unfolding. today's symptoms
of white light cannot endure the budding trees yet the bird
no longer returns                                  once
    having visited the
              alpine meadowlands
she needn't understand the small gashes in the perturbed
horizon she needn't understand
                                        the scars came from her singing
all can be seen at the horizon’s
depth, whereby a crook of branch covered with snow's worth what larks sing
            I am again delivered in the morning
not a tree, in bloom,
not a trail of loveless dust, nor an epidermal shiver. Gather tiny petals I have lost
singular as mud. And this is the forthing I have
not said. This is our heritage,
a series of
letters
left in the midst of frozen river
beds. We have not hiked through a valley that has
been left bereft of grasses, a foot-worked trail
weighing the heart’s cavity.
What tinge
the forest edge--who could show
me how lovers of cold, hard, stupid life
evolve language bearing the sound solution
down to the
one
that's tasted its bitter vigil
An apparatus known as breath shall deliver
a hymn of my whimpers. Nevertheless I love
in a direction against
which you'll fume
one myth says the kiss turns cold
what about the pistil in the hive
what about the
   circulation
      of air          intamacy confuses
                              like blood
on the writer's hand
        we forge on. Here the snow. So
                    the angel.