Dennis Saleh
 

Between December and January
there is almost nothing

the flat grey stretches between dawn
but then no further light all day

caulk of decomposing cardboard scrap
down a garage siding

collage mark of winter
Clouds hang like errors mistakes

like an enormous dull bell
that swells and rolls with rain

In the last weeks of December
mistletoe trails and clouds

in the trees like wind
that caught webbed and stayed

When the leaves began to fall
it began to show

Then winter came on a Sunday
and it was grey

Mistletoe is a parasite
The tree it is filling will die

The little berries could be skulls
tiny moons rising in hair

dull white dusted with frost
in the ringing cold

could be bells rolling last nights
of a year that hang and fall

The death of the tree
will fill the mistletoe for months

It is in the tree
like the tree is in its grave

It is like brain in a tree
It makes a head
 
 

Parts of winter getting over,
filled with ruts,

wet cardboard, newspaper leaves,
a tree hung with pomegranates.

The faded red balls celebrate
the last dying,

split sides
gaping dryly in the wind.

In its strength
it lay upon the land. It seized a man,

and he cut the oleanders
to thin, pricked stocks.

Now they fleck with sprouts,
even so.

Bits of blossom starting to shine
with sun, eyes full,

like all the offers
coming up out of the ground.