Conifers
I grew into a stuffed animal who wanted
to test the mettle of a closeted end
of starless January. [You hurtle forward, you hold
on to someone’s waist: it’s as all scouts
know.] I was loosed in dormant sumac;
this much someone, someone else retained. When
it burns you move away
is good enough advice. [Move
advice that burns, burn off
perception of selflessness, get the regard
of a thing: deer ending
afternoon against the snow
holding on to trees, crepuscular trees,
with an almost yellow whatsit overhead.]
Here all can be reduced
to twigs lashing cheeks
as the snowmobile crests another white hill.
Let dim and distraction weave into
our scarves, shrink
our boots till we put a hood
to ice at the edge of the stream,
then drink what’s seeping up
and hope it’s clear.
—Mark Bibbins
About the Author
Mark Bibbins is the author of Sky Lounge, winner of the Lambda Award, and the forthcoming Dance of No Hard Feelings. He teaches at The New School.
