How I Am Doing Now
body
poppyromanov
I have fallen into a silence, not a hole or a well,
but rather a wideness rimmed with rose and tinkling trees
in shivering gowns of sun-sliced ice. Beyond sight
all dips into a deep dell, fog-draped, dank.

Sometimes coyotes jog through the night
in their uneven coats of winter and frost,
but mostly herds of does materialize quietly,
grazing in the soft morning fogs.

At times, I stand at cliff’s edge,
sheer rock, broken and jutting, above,
stubborn bare-footed trees clinging by toes
to the jumble below, while quick as a corner-eyed

ghost, the bald eagle floats above and away.
Later, I’ll say I saw him, but who can be sure?
Who knows the coyotes, except as a silver disturbance
under moon, the dog on the hill in hysterics?

When I awaken, the wideness remains,
a grim possibility in the pre-dawn gray,
opening under the cloud-scuttled sky,
a fathoms-long lid, indeterminate.

?

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