Art and poetry on page and stage
11
Yuki Hartman
Cold
It is that
fons et origo
of all that went before
becomes a porous sieve
through which slushy ice
flows into your lungs
with the accumulated weight of gray light
under the cover of dark eaves
icicle daggers glisten
and lengthen downward
and spawning the darkening sky
the sedentary mass of bugles and trumpets
traverses between the archaic lines of your shadow breath
and ekes out a brutish rhapsody.
And somewhere out there
the snow on a thatched roof
slowly slides off
and coming down with a thud
sets the record straight.
.