digging

digging holes in the permafrost
on nights when mosquitoes are
lost in the wind.
I am hoping the mud
and ice will restore the rawness.
my hands have been
too long in the sky hunting
the light that curved around you,
they are stained a kind of blue
that is lost anywhere else.


the wind tugs at my beard
almost pulling my gaze past
the past, beasts frozen in their
demise waiting for release
from this idea that the past
must remain



.