We join eyes in the cold
of silver once again,
in the iridescence of
recycled sunshine where he
shaves every morning.
And there is brother Winter
so numb he can’t feel the razor
cut deep into his neck, seeking
in the frozen quiet of himself,
the warm blooded poet that lights
his fireplace and drinks his wine.
It’s amusing watching him from here,
inside the sacred silence of his
mirror, where he keeps the
medicine pills and the razor blades.
DQ 12/27/06
of silver once again,
in the iridescence of
recycled sunshine where he
shaves every morning.
And there is brother Winter
so numb he can’t feel the razor
cut deep into his neck, seeking
in the frozen quiet of himself,
the warm blooded poet that lights
his fireplace and drinks his wine.
It’s amusing watching him from here,
inside the sacred silence of his
mirror, where he keeps the
medicine pills and the razor blades.
DQ 12/27/06
