Lying Here Dying at the Sky
Black against this senseless endless snow,
The wind whistles
Through the ice picks of my face,
Searing red-numbed ears and unfelt cheeks, and I think: why
I did not tell you
I was going.
A brainless sign,
I thought of you in anger.
Lips whisper to someone’s cracking,
White flashes flare inside my lids.
And turning as little as I am
To lick snow, so thirsty I think,
the tongue, in me, does not dart nor stir,
my eyes fixed nor I