I’ve been here before: dragging words into the new year,
like a body I need to get rid of; the moon shows everything,
all the holes in this threadbare blanket of snow, and the cold
air carries the questions, so deadly urgent, of unseen owls.
In the morning I’ll find the evidence, such delicate violence
brushed into crystal, bloodless struggle, frozen flight; I heard
no screams, and on the page I have little more to show than
erasures only I can see; the scene begins and ends again.