. . . . As the bird trims her to the gale, 

okay. i lied about the moon and the
walls burnished silver.  snow lies
on this mountain like a plague,
the silver moon now a hazy smear
struggling to find its terminus.

and your movements--the ones that
made me lose my place in the
earthly air? those occurred a thousand
miles away inside of someone else.

in truth, if truth is true, my room is white
like reflected snow,
and it is the sound of your virtual voice--
sometimes resigned to life's vicissitudes
and sometimes charmed and holy
like waves of wind
in the trees--
that i fell for, long ago.

we have never touched.

but what
are the objects
that seduce me?

words

every day before the world falls apart,
before the flood of thought begins,
before the last star leaves the morning twilight,

the moon turns back to the pond
for one last look at herself in the mirror,
an adamantine queen on a throne of silver

where half of every tree is shadow.

in the stillness of a frozen star you say
my name three times, the third time softly;

the floor, the walls, the ceiling
all silver-plated now,
as your deliberate movements

rip my breath to rags