Frost-Damaged Sonnet (near the end of a long, cold May)

Here's a poem I wrote last Friday. Anyone who is familiar with my stuff will probably notice that this one tumbles among my apparent obsessions like a pebble in a streambed.


Frost-Damaged Sonnet (near the end of a long, cold May)


Some June when lilacs aren't in bloom
and willows are bare of bark,
when there's no chickadee, no bumblebee,
no baseball’s parabolic arc,
when lips and tongues aren't among
the universe's graces,
and gravity and entropy
finally erase us

may this mind of mine be left to find
the equations of her beauty
in echoes of her hands’ and thighs’ collapse to singularity —
all curvature of Space defined
in the ache of eyes
for the sway her hips impart to Time.