by Kasey Jueds
Enter through a goneness, the way snow
finds the hole in the roof, or a rope
is knotted at the place
of fraying. Small stone
angel with her back
to the road, as if she’d only ever
known winter. Only known
this snow, which, when it goes,
will take its borderless
silence with it. You sent
a postcard, once, a photograph
of spirals carved in stone: nobody
knows what they mean. Looking up
through unleafed branches, after
or before: only the obvious blue. All this
was centuries ago, and still
the word now nestles inside
each falling, the cuff
of a dress not meant
for this season, its thinned linen
pared down to almost,
resolving itself into air.
::
Kasey Jueds is the author of two collections of poetry, both from the University of Pittsburgh Press: Keeper, which won the 2012 Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize, and The Thicket. She lives on ancestral Lenape land in a small town in the mountains of New York State.
Image: Lorin Both
ID: frost-covered branches with a bright blue sky.
Psaltery & Lyre 