trout [ 9 ] October 2001
Sally Ann McIntyre [ 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 ]

winter, threads of light

This is what we can know on our tongues
where cities crumble like frail structures
of sucked sugar,

where the wind is an act of glass
with room for air, and light
a fall of snowforms on beach day.

The sun states the opposite
of walked earth, the windless
otherness of dog hearts,
the lights that disolve skies
to rags and pictils
at the eye’s endpoint.

There is the physical past,
downstream of trees;
no ruins, even of hills.
Flat earth walks under
the roots of grasses.

Light seeps into the blood,
the cold weak water;
white suns embedded
in white sky.



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© 2001 Trout &
Sally Ann McIntyre