limbo

After the melt, winter, dull

with Novocaine, lacking a proper taste

of death, waits in patient homage

for Nature to resume her pleasantries.

The insufficient poison of ice,

is swallowed-up in mushroom sky,

and leaves behind a chamois world,

a limb-strewn, cardboardy puzzle,

dirty as a pillowcase. She paces,

obtuse, in the squalor of good

intentions, scotch-taped, ephemeral, 

in an arborglyph of days.

Tess Kincaid

February 2011

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