This disappeared winter of the poet
Seven years and bones that guard the house
Go past the airports, go past the books, the recorded age
Slough off this disappeared winter of the poet,
Disambiguate the snow, this absolutely pale, white,
Shimmering snow, now disfiguring the black mirror of the sea
You and your guards in your stumbling, in your flight out of the tunnel,
Drowning inside this house that refuses to agree to daylight,
A house bereft of the instruments of seconds, hours and days
Until this day, this recorded age the frozen newspapers, bones that agree
Drowning this poet, this falling time leaving newspapers, cemeteries
Joyfully enlisted bird crews shaking this winter of a man
Free almost as a promise of redemption
The man that statues the disfigured bachelor
Living his winter out in a house of drowning poetry
We agreed to shut down the pages, the words, anything
That could be that precise
This is how we survive, dark, cold and dying
In the apoplectic curse of our apathy
- Peter Ciccariello
http://poemsfromprovidence.blogspot.com/
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