petals on a black bough

it's been dark a long time
and i am bathing, scrubbing
with a kind of rage that sees skin
rosy as the bottom of angels
i am twirling my hair, not knowing
what i will remember tomorrow
yet sensing
no one escapes the fire

someone asked,
'have you written about him yet?'
'no' i say, 'no i haven't'

i don't explain that there is
no one to consult and if there were
they'd hurl themselves like drunks
on to knives and spears, rather
than tell me what i need to hear

so this poem is more the scatter of birds
at the unenviable approach of dawn
and i try not to see too much of
the forgeries and desecration's,
or the black snow collecting
on the bottom of my heart

then it's spring, a year since
the divination of us
the road into town smeared with
blood and entrails, and a quorum of crows
crowding around what's left, hungry,
contentious, but to me,
simply driving past, it looks different,
like a blob of gods spit

the phone is in my hand,
i am dialing your number, just to say
where we sleep, isn't necessarily
where we will wake up,
it all depends on what we dream
like your recent reclusiveness
like love, death, etcetera

maybe the complexity of this
combined with tired eyes, driving this far
has made me more restless
or the heat of someone's tears
reminding me that branches burnt
had no purpose for staying put

but it's 2a.m.
i am still alive
every rusty cut burning with
its own peculiar persistence
to give you another season

and the radio is on love-line
just for the company