The wind… ice… things bumping in the night.
The wind blows coldly through my cross-stitched jacket.
I step outside and listen to a ghost drinking from a mountain stream.
The sound it makes is hollow, like keys rattling into an empty home.
I throw a stone into the water and watch five fish float up dead.
The trees suspire, leaves shimmy. Dappled light breaks through the canopy.
If there is a God, he’s a grumpy man — taking babies and birds first.
The ice is thick and in it are golden-glints.
In the big, bad sky, a buzzard flies by…
There is no Xanadu. No place like Oz.
You can’t get at the treasure with ice picks.
If I wipe this dream from my eyes
will you still be around in the morning?
With your little hands, reach out of that grave.
I’ll drive all night to bring flowers to your side.
This riddle of a night is turning me into a slave.
I’ll fly through the sky, find you where you hide.
I’ll pull you out of that thicket, lend you my jacket.
Together we’ll wage battle on the ice, the wind,
darkness, and silence. Together we’ll make a racket.
Things that go bump make noise — things that kill don’t.
I hear birds in the trees, birds in the sky.
I turn around and see your black, vacuous eyes.
I feel your heart in my hand, your heart in the fields…
beating — while the sheep are bleating, looking for their shepherd.
But I’m no shepherd, I can only stitch a sweater from their fur.
The night has no discipline. It’s full of Christmas and caviar.
The stars can’t catch me. I’m much too fast.
I’m fleet and svelte.
I run like invisible dogs are chasing me.
I’m dressed like a department store mannequin.
Wearing expensive cologne,
I subscribe to Details.
I’m full of it.
Tall and tailored
with photoshopped eyes.
I’m lit by gaseous stars,
full of blood, with nowhere to go,
drinking from a mountain stream.
Fleet and svelte.
A mannequin on the run.
If you’ll be my shepherd — I’ll be your sweater.