Day In January
so cold, so grey, its icepoint knife,
its ashen-snowed walk-thru oblivion
where spirit steps freeze on fossil tar, raucous-
haunted by midnight crows, torn curtains of love
gone stiff in mid flutter ironed in sleet
that slants in through the windowed hole,
is a rose-colored palace, mottled red
by Mars, bleached clean by Venus
doored to the infinite city
quarried from stars,
growing up like an oak from
a foundation of rot
where what once lived ripens a
turned-under death for
another month to feed
the secret green of possibility
with all its peculiar used atoms.
where the ghost steps wander
like a run-on sentence
under the widening moon,
the wolf moon, the hunger moon
made for the hunt.
Process note: wolf moon and hunger moon are Native American names for the month of January. Thanks to Josh Hart for the picture behind this poem.
Photo © Josh Hart, 2016
All rights reserved.