the killing frost vignette...

the killing frost vignette

toothed gale silhouette availed blood let deep gouged 
hunger and the north tilt rakes us and our bends 
weeping away from the Sun outside the leaves play 
paper bell songs falling furiously after the killing freeze 
this past weekend set about the bones/ courtesan to 
concubine and need for a system of indulgent inner 
sanctums during Winter's reign...

deigned dances 
elaborate huddles 
grateful to unfurl stored supplies 
the root cellar 
and wine cavern 
are walled with old stones 
and smell of time 
fine moist dust 
gravity, as a cellular  
take well to fire 
and sung in drunken 
kinetic laughter key
as a come on 
in an only slightly kidding 
titillating manner 
where you really want to...




" Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock— 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock. "  *   




the clocks 
just as the after poem
also sleep in 
smelling of sex 
and a fireplace 
with a few embers left aglow 
that know our names 
are places where 
we once were burning
while the rest of last night 
is ash and the quiet insistence 
of Winter waiting 
out the window

EJR ©



*  from a poem by James Whitcomb Riley, 1849–1916