Ice

The brook along my
morning ride
is a beast
flayed in shame.

The hide in this dead weather

is rigid under the saddle
of the blue sky.

I can see its cycle of death;
once informal, then glutinous
now found simply.

(I can smell it in heat

somewhere in the weeds
from the truck cabin.

Asphalt, garlic acetylene, the narcotic

zinc oxide lethargy, the Cicada-ian
neuroses.)

But then it will be gone

hidden in the foliage.

Here, I am scandalized
by the ruin
smeared into
the sticks, like a beast
crushed
under wheels.

I would wear the sad thing
across my shoulders

in supple health.

But, no, I am glad to pass
this trap and ravish
organ now
and swing my body,
and expel animal
steam like bison in deep
cold.