TREVOR CALVERT

from North gives flesh to wind

His longing, almost laughing, wrestles west.

Shouts “O land, sunshine, I’m your hunter!”

I am the fur wrapping a maid’s shoulders,

the golden torque around her throat. The geese

fill the air until no one sees them;

are the enemies of luck. Infanticide

spreads rampant ‘til only age sits smiling

at North’s table. Secret agents eat

elsewhere,  grope each other; the North, in

his cups, takes no notice. Not even once.

“As wise as thou art cruelle” deep-etched,

this form of a Queen.

Power expresses place, grips

location shape-shifting, helping as

air. Masses crystallize into a

lad, wrapped in nightly winds, in chimney

smoke, in games of lore. I loved his

“And all my honest faith in thee is lost.”

So blow the results here

until this rule finds a pause, ‘til each

wolf finds its magnetic declination.

Today the North finds a boy to bring ruin.

“O upon easy sunshine, deception.”

Everything yet can be exhausted.

Yet bones hoar.  The North will not last, cannot

hear his wicked boy’s treachery.  Beneath

all this is only a name, just ice masquerading

as Queens howl to other directions.

So black geese loft into geometry

that even he cannot escape. Whist deals

a trick hung as light in winter, and this

time a girl. A name made unstable

so the locus shifts to nether, to her hair,

to tongues shaped mongrel, singing defiant.

Now, a garden and invoked wind:

an invitation to “Let my lover

come, let him eat his pleasant fruits.”

The North incarnates as a song, a lad,

a woman in a song, as geese, as fur, as

milk and ice, as roaring, titular unto

itself, a desire for place, wildness,

as wolves, as prison, as a trick,

an voyage from south, a tryst,

unmapped drone, to a flat field,

to a picnic, to one sort of escape.

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