Winter Hunt, City Sleeps

Head like a chysanthemum,
eyes that have seldom seen sleep itself,
knowing the nothingness of days,
covered in its winter blanket's
blanched white outer surface,
flecked and sprayed city offerings,
a gold rush of drab outlined
with inability of wit or poetry,
incredulous in speech entirely.

We can no longer savor the mask.
Show me your grasp of blank outside,
my hand punches through the screens,
outside of age or child,
my studied hands palming planet,
planet suffering the star's stroke,
the painted buildings,
blushed with comfort,
blessed In geometry,
smiling fickle in its wisdom.

You have not grown with morning's
blue green glass sprinkled sidewalks,
where space suffers from gregarious hatred,
never to have risen from black defeat,
or have knocked the beaked singer
from it's fragile limb.
Show me the great white jaws,
pitiless and forsaken snapping,
head, eyes, raised to the lights.

How you remain in depth or isolated,
none of which I encounter
in the routines of the lost and drained.
Counting on fear, the wolf ribs constrict,
expand with frozen breath,
never ending eye,
searching (in the hunger state)
for your unblemished sleeve and soft arm---
no sleep can conquer its hunt,
tracking haggard forked paths directly
on the blanched white blanket surface.