Now the light drains to bleak, the crow
Like an oil pump pounds its beak
Into stiffened turf of fall, bloody
Factories & idle bones,
Stacks, paths depeopled;
No afternoon, it's done, the moon
Blows in, the leaves now long
Since gone: face the loss,
The length of the cold.
In stoves, gusts, angst utterly November's,
The will wrestles gutsily, splinters
Winter lungs cough, yields
Charred thoughts of a thaw far off.
Copyright © Mac Oliver, 2001. All Rights Reserved.