January Morning

The moths have torn apart the bedsheets. The years
are melting on our faces: a treasure chest of snow
stashed in silken bedsheets thin with holes.
Imperial moths have eaten up the shroud
of Turin. The immemorial face gazes back again
into the pits of earthly treasure, frost-riven
like silver and hilts of cold-wrought gold.
Green and blue moths are flowing out
of silken bedsheets knotted like a noose.
Snow is stuffed against our thighs. The last branch
scratches at the corner of the mind. It will bear
but one more flake. Then our voices break.
Our mute mouths murmur about a life without words.
Our hands can do the talking now. Take me up
in immaterial cloth, in the supple weave
of morning mused in yet unfallen rain.

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