burrowed in beds of sweet moss,
hungry mouth hidden
by damp soil that rusts the jaw;
forest deep, forever needle-green.
Red-tailed raptors surf a frozen wind
and blue-jays are stunned to silence
by a gentle unrelenting snow.
The rot arrives with surprising speed ~
so fragile the limb, the mind so inured to it ~
this lovely left arch, the one that would step first
out and away from him
is necrotic, green and violet, touch of red, like
a honeymoon sunset, cocktails over the caldera –
The toothy trap chews through stubborn bits
poison poison poison
stills the slender feet
the fleet mind
“Where is my world?
Where is the train.. it is time to board, our worn leather bags
have gone missing.
Who holds the small torn bear
for my daughter?
Where is the music that drifts through the harbor, breath of intermezzo,
form to form, sky to sea? Where in the world
is my world?”
flushes the veins like vines
reaching sunward in the shadowed forest
brain drunk with memory and then its absence.
In the spring the hunter remembers this trap,
it is empty.