Tongues, Teeth, Knuckles
Fastened sleet sashes panes
and window-worlds outside,
where horses confront worse.
All night, their manes gathered
slush, wind-dreaded to hold
ice like tongues suspended
in syllables tinkling
bitter chill. A raw-boned
gelding lifts one front hoof
to batter into snow
while his other feet clamp
legs in narrow shadow.
The herd waits, enduring
winter teeth zippered tight
to February cold.
Behind them, breezes strafe
magpies, pushed to the ground,
gusts strong enough to count
striped knuckles on willow
phalanges, clench by clench.
(From Tamped, But Loose Enough to Breathe, forthcoming from Ghost Road Press.)
