I told my secret to the winter wind—
panted tears like flickering stars falling
into my beard, and before I could,
the wind itself sighed; it understood
pain like arrows fired into the night
falling silently onto the blind.
It bent its course to lure me from warmth,
to follow frozen cascade down to earth
from which man was formed, and like men,
each plot of dust abhorred me when
on its bed I gathered bones from below
and lit a hearth; starving laughter, dancing slow.
Beneath the eyes and ears of the world
where death clutched Persephone’s purse—
where for some time Sisyphus rolled—
I, too, found the cure for my unwanted birth;
chilled frigid the north whose angels heat appalled,
once I’d stopped screening, and returned their call.
In the house of a hanged man, a whisper worn
softer than an unsaid vesper ties us to the storm.