"The Dawn Hunters "
So much of the sun
is a thin lacquer—
yellow glaze across
a winter sky
what is beautiful
about diluted light
that emits no heat
months of bare willow
propped on bent elbows
when there is nothing to see:
miles and miles of snow.
The window that keeps out the cold
is the same window made of ice
and could cut through gristle
easily as sinew, white tendon
whoever thought
wrists could be that fragile
and escape so narrow
as a path to the heart
Sleep then, said the dweller
backwards toward dawn.
In sleep, we are hunters
gathering warmth like fur
and eating fire.
© 2003 Mia
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