In This Season, by Richard Spilman

A crack in the crystal,

madness in the web.

The ripe bone splinters

and the marrow spills

and cruel spring makes

short work of innocence.

The snake splits open,

unpeeling its old self

against an exposed root.

The broken sing their loss

like wintering geese.

Where is the grand design?

Where the love to light

our way through a night

in which we drown each

other, clawing for breath?

Still, from the exfoliated

leaves of the dreary Times

we rise smiling, we kiss

and draw back the curtains:

The groggy dawn glows

pink on the horizon.

Taken from the book In the Night Speaking with permission from the author.

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