Loon

poem #52

Photo by the author.

With an eye shot with furious, 
escaping blood, I follow the unstained cloud:
I would also like to be moved
into the mindblank stretch
of white across the no-doubt difficult
work of that perfect, cold cheek;
the snow plain;
even a rough hand's worth,
like a rogue loon, too tired
from following his round 
white mystery above the white 
endless hills (which around 
here are soft, and
often sand, and frozen half the
year) who lands
in some green-black mirror
with the clouds thrumming red 
above him at four in the morning (by 
the sting in his eyes)
and the moon still there,
shepherding his and the world's 
blood around from somewhere 
unreachable, red chamber 
after red chamber.