The blizzard twists a white hair
Tightly against this finger of a town.
This is where the ice gathers:
Knuckle by knuckle
Until coarse bone is smoothed with ice.
Winter is this sense of ivory,
Tickled place of clocks letting blackening keys travel its face.
Each passng flake is a page on which ink drops lay.
The streets are the staff,
Your body the key.
The notes, your songs
You say belong to me.
You rest yourself, cool, in my branches
And name me your Oak princess
You land each day with sickening thuds,
Washing my skin with your ebony suds.
You pour your tongue along me like ash
while I bleach the red of your sorrowing past.
You remove your skin to release inner white,
And I died as my leaves flew away with your night.