All night long, on all sides of the house, there ate large, black, invisible horses
grazing in the stubbled field. Their legs are tied. The sound of their hooves
moving across the dry sheaves, is the only living thing in the world.

We expected a nerve, a move of some kind.
But the nothing that happens in death
was occurring.

Each tree is hung with ascensions of ice
and things lie sleeping under a curtain of snow.

Faring
and with a full tank:
                              past death regardless

All night, wind out of the Pentlands
around the chimney flue made sounds
like thunder, and I lay thick

I’ll quit smoking
as soon as I
get lung cancer.

I didn’t mean to quit drinking, 
it just sort of happened. 
I’d always assumed 

You haven’t texted
since Saturday,
when I read Keith Waldrop’s

and in the also silence
of justice as after      a rain a storm a hurricane

I notice its highest buds always leaf first
the serf twigs twisted and naked