“the heart still beating/ Under the bark…” — Ovid
The day-moon halved and see-through in the sky
Might make it hard enough for you to mind
But then there’s us, our bones on blue,
Our panicked manes, snow flurries fixed or lightning’s
Ragged wedding swatches hung.
The bow that frosts the cello’s strings? We’re after
That. That blizzard in the brain, electric
Synapses alight and cracking knuckles
In the belljar.
The side the sun finds finds
Us flare. The side sun can’t, a timber-rotted
Mud, the negative of us, our postures
No less carved by wind for that, our scribbled
Tips aloft, air trash in the subway, frenzy
Of Daphne’s upraised hands and hair.
We are beheld unheld; we will not leave
The earth alive.
Nor will you, in your scuffed shoes —
Our hollows, too, large enough to hide the horses in.