A derelict train of pain and memory offloads us at January.
Something freezes birdsong at dawn and
We see only ashen arms of woodless trees. And
Even if you hum at it, January is not going to leave.
Will the bluebird ever return to the heart’s forked branches?
I think of a world bereft of snow and
See giant fish beached by metal,
Waiting for the sixth extinction.
But I only wish you would forgive me slowly
For wounding the sleeping furry animal of your thighs.
And now, only a mist and granite sadness
On a road stretched taut between us.
I think if anyone were to mention the word ‘love’
Then everything will fall silently as snow.