By Chase Twichell
Nothing has a name it can’t
slip out of. The waterfall is solid ice
by late November; the white pines
vanish under snow that’s
blue in the morning, pink at dusk.
Here’s a little bouquet—ice
and evergreen and sun; three moments
arranged for human looking,
though it’s only the husks of their names
that I’ve gathered and paralyzed.
and evergreen and sun; three moments
arranged for human looking,
though it’s only the husks of their names
that I’ve gathered and paralyzed.
