water is Winter's castle...

  ‘the last train’  by Michael Hutter ©

between a bull and seeds

the pierced still gray

of the January night sky

is open mouthing the words

to this poem

they are in

a caught light magic

lulling clocks asleep

past midnight before Dawn

I am calling out to dance

in the brachial reach of thin trees

crawl-tasting my desires

in their raw time signatures

these flickering silhouettes

of my sensory perceptions

are tied to memory

are stamped like passports

so I can understand

that familiar rhythms

travel with each new

reason to burn

each leap draws  

into dark fertile encampment

I become, a crept theft waiting

to catch fire, waiting to be seen

beyond recognition, waiting to accept

the permanence of the mask

I televise my surrenders

give up the wheel

I motion though

that I am still driving

I take selfish as the slow bullet

know where to place pain

each moment a reflection

to make an example of

I pause, to cry a bit

in the cold ache of snow

arctic fangs, digging in

waning Moon saying nothing

behind the clouds

while, I start

to remember Summer

as May leaning in

pure wanted bloom

pure pollen storm

slowed down dreamt

fuzzy images, pure delirium

fitting everything in

EJR ©