i. december

with nothing left to harvest

of a chillblain night

old stars burn swiftly

and collapse to metaphors

tremor my memory’s edge

          like tongues

keeping conversation with

palsied premonitions

it’s as if even a rusted moon resists

the imperfections of my half-naked


a slight shift of light

an unraveling of reasons

seasons shuttered

to a darkened house

the familiar blur

ii. january

hourly, through this relentless

cold baptism 

I stoke the backfire

underneath the kindling of napalm

and molecules smolders

a consummation

a cause and effect

the escaping dark column 

creates a cloudbank

          some kind of smokescreen

that passes by my half-sighted pane

perhaps pollution of the dead


an inarticulate darkening

iii. february

cancel now this grieving 

from my green eyes

contain all things off white

and winter-wounded

or remain widowed black

buried beneath a grey-haired horizon

eavesdrop from that cemented ceiling

to a voice unearthed

a reversal of sighs

as if the sound of leaden trees

          all bare-armed and longing

becomes an allegory of nous

an unlikely song

iv. march

as slow as sunday snow

I shred the advancing shadows

of eleven hours of damp ink

and build a papernest

vowing to become a bird

– uncaged

feathers preened, softened for flight

pulled the same way virgin petals stare


like pillars of melting smoke

find me now


my slowfade into blue

I am wingspread

 ©  lori hamilton


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