zafusy

Soft to the overwave. Real words have interfered as martens to a nest.
What pales them, standing in their tall boots, so clever against
the angles that were tried.

Crisp in the Fall, we’ve compounded all there was with our slow takes
and now we are turned up, watching you young ascend,
the wires like garrotes,

we are begging now. So simple in our plan. Take hands to assemble
the arch between quaints in its curved precocity.
We were clapping then,

Assured the driest snow would not build up where we floundered
and yet melts weren’t eyed differently, or should.
Come to this holding.

We are like to felt and wage tears again. We will pin arms and salt
with the same flurry we used for dragging
our bills with holes

where the heads were, our thick cloaks ripped to include, walking light
among your soft folds weaned to the weather,
you agents of the chilled flight.

Scott Hartwich

View all poems by Scott Hartwich