Winter Journal: Gold Rivulet Weave, Gauded

chains of the willow, desolate weft birds and the slim reprieves the socketing together of weeds before water straight-pins of jet incontrovertible smears of dense cloud against bullet-train whitenings, unleashed the reductions to tense the awful dozes into deep sinks flush grows upward, secreting, soaking through the old damasks fretwork of trees, their balances achieved then slipped off touched-up surge of cloud across water The river shuttles onward, reconstituting It gains the red threads of taillights the spare greens and the thousand paired whites warping over, shaping off The ducks come forth out of something unclear The trees drain their weights into water The ducks are a tension I have not known of How they pivot, disfiguring the whole field dragging their trapezoid blear They are careful and meet their trains behind them like brides Now the whistles of those taken to air The disturbance of them in this river and the wavering cardiographies up-rushed, up-stayed This is the push of all strayed things into night the heavying of trees against sky-fire stolen into a river, cloistered down I do not want anything more than this taking of last light into pocketings and loose garments unbearable closets of the trees the stitched-in bones and the placketings This feeling of everything unhanded suddenly let go into robes The half-bustled willow rails forward The still surface. The quieted surface. The same sharp planets exacting there