*

                                        Whispers adrift, falling like blankets
of pure snow, howl about how low they will go,
          lacking its innocence as they grow,
piling on people personal details no
          stranger should know, shadows a hermit
stumbles through barefoot as to his cave he goes,
          frozen toes a juvenile trouble
when laid against what gods made impossible
          to resolve, if only because what
these whispers reveal kill off all other thoughts.

                                                       *

                                        Pain itself has a path it follows,
throughout a life sauntering as if storm clouds
          could not slow its progress, swallowing
darkness as though suffering were sustenance,
          taking from a blind world illusions
to feed its lost people, sheep its steel fingers
          twist into eating, each believing
theirs worse, but pain has a way of deceiving
          the best of us, even hermits, when
coursing through veins no one mistakes as his own.

                                                                                         *

                                        No, as far as he will go, this old
hermit, he knows whose hand reaches inside him,
          its ice threading a hole with whispers
his eyes close to deny, but too close toward
          this lone knight works Rumour her cold knife,
and extricating a soul’s truth to tumour
          its existence with a pestilence
of lies impregnates man and maiden alike,
          peppering precious light to tasteless
servitude, making of them Hell’s couriers.

                                                       *

                                        Swift flight cannot deliver from her
victims Rumour’s deepest cuts whose secrets sigh
          not of injustice, but having been
opened too much, indifference no cover
          impenetrable enough, no screen
of smoke invincible once blown by her mouth’s
          charred lips—yes, in winter’s death she works,
efforts more determined than a hearth burning
          to keep warm with unarmed embraces
pure hearts who see the sunrise in a blizzard.

                                                                        *

                                        So against all fog, open your minds
and eyes, walk with discomfort hand-in-hand, find
          in that harbour behind your mouth where
you hide your cargo ship, your baggage, your shit
          with which you have yet to deal, there kneel
and make Humility come, summon up from
          his hold what spirits your fear held down
until you painted yourself too proud to bear
          them, demons you mirror when whispers
surface before the sunrise in a blizzard.