wSnow Burning www7 January 2009

The village watches snow burning
and the rain peeling its own footsteps
on purified surfaces of imagined mass,
suspended and waiting for the day

My fingers smell of fire and oranges,
easily flayed and distantly crucified
as the bells store blows to be
gorgeously wasted at midnight

And carelessly extended cats dream
of tinned and ambiguous murders
plaintively writhing on scarlet Kashmir
and giving the lie to laconic guitars