Poor Monster

In the quiet morning
beneath the cashmere calm,
behind the dog's soft snoring
and the purring knead of pinked flesh,
a chill threatens from the door
that won't quite close.

The wind teases
the cracks around the casement,
searches for purchase on the slippery ledge,
its sucking need just outside.

The winter sky has gone
dull white, a rictus that sucks
the color from the earth.
And no thousand trees' brown
fingers can pull it back.

It is the season when the weak
tire of waiting and the strong grow tired.
It perches on the sill,
spies through the shutters,
ruffles it feathers and waits
for the shattering.

Poor Monster.

It is consumed with lonely
and it wants only
you. Wrap yourself in dread
and wait for the final signal bell.

The last train leaves at dusk.

Sweet William

I cannot seem to wipe the image of him,
thin and so very childlike,from my mind.
His sweet hopefulness is counterbalance
to his rage, and one never knows which
you will encounter, though with gentleness
and hesitation, he can be bought like a colt
with sweetfeed on a winter’s day. He nibbles,
gingerly at first, then sure, and follows placidly
along, while hidden from sight, lie the prod
and knife patient and ever sharp,
waiting to bring him home.