IV.
Moon harpies live under the eaves
Half-woman, half shining moon-clod
They shine through their transparencies
Their little slips of aether
They murmur and murmur
Their prophecy to the chilled air.
Late December, not a strand of water
Stands in this moon chamber
Under the cathedral of their dripping orb
There’s no telling what they’ll do
Lightly shod and low
They rule this realm
We pass through
Like a rustle of leaves
Ruffled by a husky breath
Moon, moon, moon, they mumble
And we repeat, this menstrual catechism
Then a freeze.
It all locks up
In a lattice of crystals
The entire world is encased
In frost, chill
It is hoary, as old as the moon
But its limber
Like a young girl
The ice arches across the creek
With the suppleness of a ballerina
Little curlicues of snow
Coned bobs of Ice flotillas,
Mobbed and crazed spindles of frost
With this root of freeze
We labor under the whip
Of the Queen of Frost
She’s banished the Moon
Beneath her wall-to-wall
Carpet of whit
The violent shock of a world
Carved numb and smooth.
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