Ice-fang
Sky and storm heath—
Rolling, threat of grey—
Flash fire without the flame. Though this landscape
Snow-strange and bent
As cemetery gates in shadow
Death walks winter:
Snow woman
Sleet maid
Virgin hair icicle-fall,
White dress a freeze of Christmas rose—
Icicle fingers reaching
Reaching— She
Fair Lady
Hale-hardened, diamond-fierce
Almost bridal—
A little grey, perhaps Walks winter
Like hearth-smoke
Above cold-windowed hamlet curling
Clavicle,
Now rib
Now feather spine: December's carcass laid out
Like a monster's feast.
Though noon street and blizzard alley
Twig fingers reaching
reaching — She is
glass pop
and window-buckle in subzero,
hearth fizzle, ember ash-death
she
walks winter
and the floorboards shriek
to stifling —children
surprised at midnight nibbling.
One sleeps now,
Coughing in his truckle bed—
Half-moon's reflection in waking blue.
The headboard does not shiver at her coming.
She bares snow-tit
And suckles him to sick.
Cold fingers in straw hair reaching,
Reaching— Though naked wood Though drought stream Through pond etched
Mirror mirror
By lovers' skates Death walks winter
Shiver,
nightmare
and drift-wandering
youth—
red-cheeked and hale
as first lilac
bistre-haired and blister—
walking, too
through and rag trees
—lover, waiting
waiting
for death's fingers. Szepasszony
Nameless as night-terror
Winter-walks towards him
Mouth cave-open
Eyes ripple hungry
Glass arms reaching
reaching —
