Some Weather

In the upper midwest
the wind turns
at four o'clock.
An ice edge forms
the oxygen cased
in a sharp, slim blade.

Later, Refracted

soon you're broken off peace will walk and talk
the scent of that day coming roars through folded time compressing
swift toughness leaded lips I'll speak like cotton and it's spun winning with such guilt and
fix you a calendar I series of boxes edge the perfect ribbon
and I that field the square yes but ever ragged after the haze cotton
bound by senses bailed and stored rhythmically I grow back toward future
little more than splintered stocks trying the Sun and I'll tell for
roping ladylike loss in the open square of that month and whatever
piece on offer head in hands folded open my fast comes forth to
soak the scent of time