arctic dawn

pink champaigne and fire
spill from ridge to snow capped ridge
black flap of wings as if the death angel--
no only a raven
were to pluck my soul
or steal my eyes

morning is for dreamers
who, destined to awake
insitst on sleeping in
the winter hibernation
where the sound of wind
blowing snow, a quiet music
that matches the phrasings
of your sorrow

Some enter the wilderness
some return to cities
the caldera
where once civiliztion
met her gentle end--
and then she was burried,
exhumed, excavated,
exquisite,
another story, an apocalpse
a holocaust
the burning memory
of staring into the
blood tinged sun