air by air we soften rocks we across wetly in crook and shale choose chill thread by thread unself into ancient felt
The skunk waddles across the field; thick fur shimmering like mink on a well-to-do woman, oblivious of me, crouched, cold, and muddy, cutting Bok
I dream of men that will not leave my room, perched like birds of prey at my bedside. I dream of men hurting me,
“What power art thou/Who from below Hast made me rise/Unwilling and slow….” –John Dryden, libretto “The Cold Song” for Henry Purcell’s King Arthur How