Poetry: Joan Colby
A pewter lid dulls lace of ice on trees.
Amphoric wind booms through
Fuddled crowns, down the shank of hills.
Rock and weed glaze silver-black.
An arctic curl unblacks the starless gulf
Unwinds the world. Snows drift
Into lush curves. The howl becomes a hush.
Confusion of white where floundering rump deep
Straggling herds bellow loss to nowhere.
The latitude of sorrow.
Winterline. Snow dingy
As old sheets stained
With the battering of lust.
Fenceline, a broken alphabet
Retaining no vowels. The tongue
Struggles and declines. If there were words
To praise what is lost
They would hang bronze and crumpled
As recalcitrant oak leaves. Winter
Cuts the throat of love
With its frozen knives. You say
We’re on the downslope and you’re right.
Everything pales like a cataract.
If there is anything in sight
It might be an iron bench
On the deserted asylum’s lawn.