Come Morning (Poetry)

Night finds the body stilled —
                                chilled down to ice.
Limbs like lakes unnerved lie brittle-skinned
each would-be twitch a fish caught frozen fast —
small impulses that gnaw against the dark.

Blood fixed as wire — pulse barely making time
its redblue thinned to stains of memory.
Bitter bruises pattern pock-marked flesh —
faint dints run down a winter’s dry-stream bed.

Raw ancient landscape wearied by the cold.
Held in thrall — dead-legged and rooted numb
bones think as trees — imagine they’ll grow strong
come morning with the thawing stab of sun.