"Night Sweat."
The fire is out.
The wood was green, and not even the wind in the chimney
will bring it back.
The last cold sputter onshore, and psychotic than black.
Sleep picks at the window and empties the room,
I put down my book and sleep.
The snow cluttered, a broken tree,
what air there is drones on.
She is gone, my skin carries her stain.
I could sleep away the night.
I could read Rimbaud the better part of sleep,
walk on melting ice.
Burn the lamp to avoid the stars, carry her bones.
Look for a change that was always there,
at least I've broken the silence.
Branches scrape the window, out there
in the dark becoming spring.
The wind is a careless light.