Anaethema

Anathema

Take me up to the top of the hill
and set my heels in rifts
so wide with chancing, white with thrill
-ing. Mine looks down on faultless drifts.

My knees bend aching to be clean
in razor arcs. I know
a muddled track, a soil ravine
is always as I go.

Let wilding ice floods powder me
and bury to the knees
my jailbird boots. Please, I would be
migrant feathers in the trees.

Set blue peaks, slow moving, immense
to shadow weak flesh from
the rising heat that burns against
my shivering frame. Then let it come;

I’ll lance away my stagnant breath
with stabbing frost. I’ll wake
and freeze my doubting eyes to death
for his great white eye’s sake.