Preening
By Paul Cameron Brown
The sky is red and comes
from Montreal -
you lied to me
the hemlock of the wind
is not this January's
but is ringed with
steel laughter of
another winter.
I saw you wringing sweat
from the eyes of the road,
lie down take the season's
wetness in your mouth,
push apart moist dampness
'til one cavity was
felled and another opened.