…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…
