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Crouched at the woods’ edge


In a delicate static

Of falling snow.


Shadow thrown

By a shadow,


Inert as an infant’s tombstone


In her fateful fur.


Everything is pouring

Through the funnel of the ear.


That priceless darkness

Pearled round

A germ of pure dread!


You are watched by the eye

Of a terrified angel.


The holiness

Of her vow of silence


She can rent with a cry

That shivers the stars.


But her concealed weapons

Her hind legs

Are cocked and loaded,


And when you think of moving

She is your reflex:


That first soft bound

Of her life-and-death ballet!


Then her flawless arches

Over snow

Not red with her blood,


When she is only flight,


Only her fleeing

Through the woods’

Dark columns


Down turn after

Turn of

Her invisible labyrinth.


And likely she’ll be back


Once you are lost forever,


This action printmaker

Of the virgin drifts.


This knowing Eve

In the snowfall’s sibilance.


This femme fatale

In the silent movie of winter.



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