Fragment: Winter Journal

…then seizure again, that
blue clot, level

of the larynx,
can’t breathe, can’t

speak, don’t want to,
heron long gone

(where?), no longer
perfecting its one

slant move:  stillness
stabbing at shadow,

its throat (no cry)
muscle of fin

and writhing, all
I dream

is blue weather,
blue snow

on a blue roof,
Rilke’s zombie angels

fixed in this world
for now, sharp,

angular ice,
halfway down the river

the trees are dirty with
them, as bent as

fishhooks, sundown:
last red wash of emptiness,

last seizure, ice cracking,
then seizure again…

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