A cold beyond imagine,
eke heat from streetlights
on the slow march to the end.
How does one choose
the moment for oblivion?
I am no Antigone.
The gods lay out no lightning bolts:
I divine with black ice, pigeon bones, snow.
Weary body begging for a drink of death.
The lady Lake waits like a paralyzing lover.
I have seen this city in all its guises:
sheep-wrapped in spring rain; summer shimmering,
roaring with heat; fire breasted autumn glory,
winding rubies in her hair –
Tonight she bares her teeth at me, every eye
an icicle, water witch to the last.
I suckle at my sorrows.