Don't —this frosted branch
is weighing the Earth —one move
the leaves and count
all over.
No wonder it's winter
again.
Try! How long can it
take?
Don't move your lips —the ice
will only darken —with a knife
it opens your whispers
as if they weigh too
much —your mouth
caked open, trying to
say something
and on the snow, on
your fingers
ounce by ounce
hollowed out
and its stillness.
Don't! Holding your
breath
won't save time or
hiding things —your lips
will close on a soft,
summer evening
a breeze start up, a
train
crossing some river —deep in your mouth
tasting like one name
nearer to another
—don't move! this branch
is weighing an Earth
once heavier than sunlight
than the ice on your
tongue —say nothing.
Nothing. Not even the
trembling
that comes down from
this tree, closer and closer