Take This

Where the grass grows gray behind the sun’s
slowly closing eyes,
a man covered
hair to toenail
in thick black hood and
black wool blanket,
stares silent up at stars, and cries
not as in tears that splatter
like sawdust on the rock-speckled ice
to which his feet and calves are frozen
a statue stuck
in a block of cement, but like
the train-howl as it trumbles over
the dead woman’s silver body,
a rivulet in moonlight, a tear
in the rocky slab of mountain
like the rip
in the unfinished letter,
lets loose a boulder
that cruckles down the mountain,
and splatters into sawdust that
splinters in your eye.