Is it finally fair to say like gods / we make images to pour ourselves into?
My sister casts buttons through / her window—they shadow / / like pills into small ponds / of late winter ice.
like a book left open in the rain; pages wrinkle, / rip and fall before their ambiguities are read.
In the freezing season, the lacerated places breed / / bright ice in matrices and lattices, glittering, / highballing.
You carry it in on your palm-stretcher, / a brittle-spit, a kicked-out life-in-a-stick, / / all stuttering beak and shattered spindle, / like a rickety dollhouse staircase.
Remember how we used to love? / / The way our hearts were rough-hewn / and rabbeted together like the shiplap / on the barn out back
Dare the wish you dare to wish on morning’s last star: / That every creature be mated and warm, / every couple coupled and quickened
I would rather lose him than remember lies. Loss is real and heavy / and as hard to carry and balance as a shuttle of slack coal
We want bright lights. / We want a voice / of god, or reason, recent studies / / roaring in our heads
