Todd Swift





I summoned the flat constant snow to disinter,
and grow upwards in the form of an apparition
meaning shape was insubstantial, yet informed
with a desire to ruin space by virtue of collapsing

an emptiness, speaking the cold tongue weather
manages to chatter at the bone.  Wearing leather
in the Antarctic desert, I farmed a dismal boon
of Nature, stunning in white gowns drawn from

the sliding pelts of struck-down creatures mewing.
This drenched yard, slaughter-bright, enchanted
the polar star, pointing a light finger at my engine,
my humming sled, permanent and sleek, inhuman.

Copyright 2004 Todd Swift.  All Rights Reserved.


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