11

Dark deeds wring sweaty hands
where another man just would say:
It costs to harbor a volatile spirit
under a capricious skin! Flee!
Like a smoldering fire
cold December crumbles.

Night abducts all frenzy,
seeing carries mist to sleep.

The math and the content
beds with the very best of our age,
cheered on by the lazy,
licked by eyes of sleep.

Tonight all content is external.
The speed of the thermometer
is certainly of no avail
to those who no longer live,
nor aspire for air.

Winter breaks the chilly seal
to light a whole different fire.
The touch, soft and discrete,
speaks of an old man in a cave.

A ray of hope cringes,
eating light he stops
moments before winter strays.

Drab sarcophaguses of night
slide into a flake white opening;
a dark eye, lost
feeds on diatribes. There is no solace.

Who calls for more when it is dark?
Shadows of guilt flicker in rooms
where no house wolf reigns.
The dark air smells of more snow,
no regret.

There are tiny diamonds in the snow.
Tonight he is rich.

House wolf tendencies; happy when creative.
He fears obliteration, but care for all little things.
He relates to dreams that float through woods
full of women and canvas not fearing
what assails him just before sleep.