James C. Baloian

I said
here are the hands
you wanted
the rest are coming

There is
a boy who plays
the violin in a field
no one has been
able to stop him

the new moon
brims over the road
and waits invisible
for night to grin
and light out

earlier shaken from sleep
I came out to speak
nightmares and wake my body
in the bold
stars and blue wilderness

Sometimes I wish myself
small and running in
from the road
or wind

and at your feet
ask to climb up
into the basket of arms

There was a death. They came
wandering from the lower regions,
until they reached the top. Settled
and reborn, they melted the ice, warmed
the air, and outlived the day.

Snow fell. They built each cradle,
nursed the dirt with water, until
a speck formed wiggling itself
from the dirt; and the camp went
and turned and the snow fell.

Nights and snow and cold-
but they drank, their beards
keeping them warm. Fucked.
Fucked the cow, the deer, the bear.

The wind has joined the snow.
The air turned cold and black,
while the day, pulsing like a
choked vein, watches the tops of chimneys.