The darkness feared is the darkness pursued in claret's
deep scarlet legs sanguine, a stemmed bowl also light
and shimmering stands collapsing in reflective sunset,
gray smudges heralding the inevitable escape of night.
It's hard to remember there was a meadow passerine
when everything is broken: the maiden corrupt in blue
and the crone coruscating in a thread-bare robe lined
with tissue shreds. I had once had dreams uplifting too.
I want to ball my fists hard into my armpits and fly away
or gnarl my hands and play the gargoyle cloaked in nice.
In soft breathing she dreams of leading the child to play
through sleet snow in a grey granite quarry clothed in ice.
Bring me the Russian hat lined in fur, my head is cold,
and I'm worried about the marinade.