To stand in the middle of winter and speak of summer,
your mouth fragile & green.
Every devotion is a twisted rope with two ends.
Think of a burial. How close that word is to boy.
Think of the feverdream as a harvest, the room
spinning even and low as a record.
Or that time you saw two bull moose
antlerlocked in a clearing, snow just starting to fall.
Every aggression is instinctual. Picture the pockets
in your body. How much time you wasted
imagining sons with boneweak men. Last
night you dreamt that your mother was dead
and you inherited her house. All of that softened
glass suddenly yours.