by Robert Dana
The trees turning black and blacker.
The snow turning blue.
Winter clamped and hard.
Only the fire consoles me.
And the eyes and mouth and hands of fire.
Twin birds in each ear.
A fox on each cheekbone.
The candle flaming along its flat nose.
Exploding on its skull, a blue cosmos.
The dream-tiger's head
snarls silently on the white wall.
Ten thousand tiny beads of many colors
pinned into beeswax over carven wood.
Power decayed into Beauty.
Mercado junk food for the soul.
In its blank, fierce eyes,
some shaman's storm of wild music still frozen there.