January 3, On
The Metro To Ballet
mud squash,
boughs dripping.
Fog. No color
but what’s left
over from china-
berry buds, dark
mountain berries.
Christmas lights
the paint is worn
from. Ever since
the solstice, it
seems darker
at night. Blues
for an old lover,
a quart of gin
on his grave. Blue
sweatshirt, navy
shades and paler.
Bones that can
no longer betray
from January Poems, 2006