When I move, the world moves
with me.
I am in its hands;
it's neither left, nor right
nor up, nor down,
nor back or front
It moves like a face that smiles
on water
Grotesque suddenly beautiful
suddenly distant to almost
remembered.
I am January.
Only a heady disc of stars spin
flinging vague truths
into the thick black fur of night
I am a truth within it all.
What terrible vast fleshy secret
has revealed itself in me
this Winter?
My hands look dead with cold
when bare.
The world is my eyes
that sit on me
and the stool legs dig into frosted
Earth
for answers, for secrets
And we wait. Or we wait.
Then we wait.
Like rotting wood on a beautiful boat
on a frozen lake.
These blue maps course around me
like strangling roots.
I am collapse, growth, percussive
fire lighters
deep in my eyes
to yours
to the world.
The Earth grumbles
Oscillating between metaphor
and actual.
My closest friend is farthest away
Sending messages in snowflakes
Clinking cold crystals that catch
my eye
I spin yarns with them,
make chutney dreams,
knit together stories for imagined futures
for the Present's sleigh ride.
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