Two Blackbirds

These things we will not say
Roads glide on ice.
Your snowy trees are swans.

Nothing is what it is
Waves are particles,
Your streetlights bless snow.

Or bees.
Or blackbirds that circle winter stars,
Frozen braille reading

Revelation of your body
In the doorway,
Your light, your hair,

Bud of darkness
Across your cheeks
My hands are brackets

That cup the shadows
Of words, our
Imperfect eclipse.

Work Horses Seen from a Road in December

The horses seem to be blackened grain in grainless fields.
Perhaps their watered eyes have frozen this world to stone,
the whites having seen to it that it blinks with snow.
I assume they know they cannot plow forever,
cannot continue to turn over sky matted with foreshadowing.
They must expect eventually it will overtake them,
outgrow their fields, see birds defect through contrails,
or, rather, fence lines withering under a lifeless winter sun,
not blinding but as it probes our night,
reveals the braille of what we are not able to see.
I stare at these second-sighted beasts,
groomed in weather’s imminence. Is truth beauty,
is it in their knowledge that this world will melt,
and though there will be no new world,
this is the one always leaving?