First published in
Western Humanities Review

The Premium Game of Logomachy.

Tonight, amidst this untempered
                       calliope of split hearts

and imagined spite, I found
                       a nettled plain strewn with shin
splints of truth that glittered
                       like tin leaves in an electric storm.

They crackled, spat greenish sparks
                      and spoke only of you.

I know only of you and the earth below,
                       replete with ciphers:
card games in rathskellers, coffee
                      cans full of photographs

and perfumed letters. Who knows
                       what has been left; what more

there is to leave? Time will pass.
                       A sicklechoir announces the harvest.
The fairground now a gathering
                       place for finches and regret.

But the wind, dressed with the dross
                       of burnt leaves, is nothing

to fear. It follows me, whispering:
                       No need to weep: the cyclone sleeps.
And I know there are no blacker hills
                       than in Hades, although Dakota comes close.

No luckier stars but for your freckled back.
                       No peace until your return.