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Poetry > Individual Poems

As if language leaves you
or might not countenance
raw dependence

you regress
to a child’s morse, tic-tac
a plaintive
dit dit dit.

Today a single word
is between you and silence:
‘Cold,’ you say, ‘cold.’

Cold on hills the rags
of snow like shorn lambs
or torn shrouds on winter trees.

A tracery of invocations,
a seeking prayer; iced-breaths
founder in dense air.

O my valiant one
it is love sustains us
craves in the ravaged bone

the useless arms
aching to hold.

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