Is it still a flight log when there was no flight?
Why not.
Winter Walking
From unspoken to spoken goes the silence,
broken, by the crash of ice
that heaves up chestlike: rising, falling.
In the cold mouth pouts a sputter,
red. The only spot for miles,
and a foot who finds the water.
You seem to melt into the darkness,
named for light, and often lighting
candles that you let burn low.
And drag your fingers, rough and boyish
down my side. You draw a bath
and see too late, the stopper’s missing.
We stay awake, and in the morning
go again to walk. For reasons
we don’t know ourselves,
but well, the snow wants to be seen.
In all its crashing, broken forests
trees in all manner of undress,
and ducks go running.
In this false winter of your 20s,
madness that you swap for anger,
lust that you confuse for love,
and righteousness you’ll soon give up.
There is only the work that’s left you,
tend the animal of your body
and go get warm again.
boshai 