Solstice 2011

Were I a mouse I would lick the hope from these cobwebs and dust.
I would wait here, between walls, my space, between seconds
between heartbeats, and walk between the raindrops, most of them,
of the five minute storm that rolled above us, one flash of lightning,
thunder in the dark of it, the last gutters of a banked year
baked in sassafras and olive wood, smoky, smelly, hissing and popping.
The three shapes of leaf, the syrup of boiled roots, since identified
as poisonous.  I nibble, dream of raspberries, dream or fiery skinned
newts in the dark cool of black summer soil, a black sun rolling
in the deep heavy pockets of low hanging clouds.  No true cold comes,
not yet, and I worry.  No true speech, just the sound of pots and pans,
the cheap ones of first apartments, strung from winter-bare branches.
I feel a storm.  I put my shoulder to the wheel.  The earth will move
in the strain of my sore muscles.  I will make it so, if no one knows.
A split footed man stamped on the pavement, rusty chains and cracked bells,
draped on him like metal, fasces in hand; he was not the devil,
just a killing joke.  For your sake, I must ignore him.  For our sake,
I must let him pass.  I hear the sound of his revelry, I have to remember,
this battle I must not join.  I must not.  Tonight, maybe, my Lord is born,
tonight, maybe.  A black sun could hatch a doom for you and me, soon
as it would go pink then white.  White, then gold.  Gold, then orange.
Orange, then red.  And even born, he'll live but eleven months,
and even strong, he will leave me, twenty one days in darkness.
He will be there on the underside of the meniscus, as he is now,
the inside of the mirror.  The bells ring an alarm, now, the streets fill,
and all feet are running, blind, beating out the rhythm of panic.
So this I will place, like a babe in a cool oven, not knowing if I or anyone
will find him in time.  Never knowing.  Find him in time.