Bone Morning
Doug Ramspeck Powdered residue. Mealy snow in the woods. This door opening into first grays. Exiled hour anointed in thinning fog. This, our dispensation. This, the world inside our world. The strangled back of the throat of bird cries sputtering their fuses. To dream of rubbing the ointment of weak light across our skin. To dream of hours so thin they disintegrate in hands. And the old gnaw of my brother leading us into the field and pointing toward the throbbing toothache of the sun. Low slung. Low fever. Mute as it lifts its tired body amid branches. Then my brother pointing past the train bridge. Pointing to where the doe has cast herself