Seasonal

Doffing the pretense of yesterday’s songs,

to the south do I face in the northerly sun

as it scratches its ice, as I polish its brow

against my own palms, the sedges allow

this third piece, the hunger abounds

as only nourished by feats, leaps and towns

not cast, nor emulsions stirred

by my own hand they congeal, but to yours I adjure.