By Robin Bierach
Dead tangles of tree limbs,
White light filtered through,
Dry air scratching soft skin,
Winter’s ending soon
Aching cold extremeties;
Purple, clammy, gnarled;
A loitering stink of vomit,
Too familiar to be harrowed
Dust settled on old shelves,
Black-out curtains opened,
Death card drawn reversed;
I’ll turn it over, so I’m hoping