Reki

by Rudi Matic

Long pale have I perceived you, which were flesh;
In winter now as white as childhood.

This sign the elaborate language, cynosure:
This tiny breach of ash. O skein of screens,

Judge my lost life. My flights. The pyrrhic silence;
Late, oaken, stalagmitic; tor of rust

Scarved in enormity of shadows,
Querulous and tattered. Lunar place.

But in lascivious winter still you dress,
Sere and relinquished, as the heaven-born go,

Crying presence where the whorl of lies proceeds,
Inordinate, pale and severed. Crying. Keening.