Leaving Taichung Station

winter: ii

Snow, leaning slight in its proficiency and desire

tock, tap, tumbled over

and then you rose slipping up upon the air

as a snapping deciduous caught in the tongue of a November updraft,

sound splintering and thoughts specking 

as the rain transformed to white song drifts over and away

teethed downward toward the heart buried in the ground:

there go the thoughts, there rain'd the touch, there raced the tail of some copperysuch twig.

Winter calling you across the globe, dreamsong. 

But now

what to do with the creek in the neck 

the cringe stiffened from watching words drift skyward, transformed breath,

a meerkcat in defense of the sky, the heart

Suricata suricatta,

surrender when the strain comes not from vanity but from the only thing that makes sense

the defied, you defied gravity 

pulled me kiteward and made sure we accumulated there:

in the vein of the crook of an aging ligature

in the wash of fractals and limbs,

hearts drifting over the land, the dead, the living and the going,

left, right and the slightly leaning.

We a flurry of blanket alabaster, souls ondinging.

Digging out from the sky's traveling, 

the known unraveling

the skift scattering, a speed boat of cognition traveling in stealth

neve, known and our cornsnow joining, winged.

Away the day and what was spun, osteology’s scaffolding

all of what you have penned

all of what you have kept

all of what you once buried in the back of the yard gone frozen

all of what you once built from trunk and twig and promise gone

we race snow-pawed toward the thawing heart, amending

we gloam our ardor wide and the land unbuckles, still.