Feb
7th
Thu
7th
THE AIR THEY HANG IN
by Patrick Lucy
The horse’s reigns,
short hair, saddle strap.
Winter air coalesces,
clouds around a phrase, sees it
as far as it will go-
long enough to draw
honest-to-god analogies.
But that’s it. Hear
the birds, how they’ve started?
Note the surgical air
of pine needles…
Build a very real fire,
boil water, dry the socks, warm the body. Let it go.
Start again
as if there weren’t at least a dozen of these
at any given moment
ending as usual.
