WALKING IN PRAISE
Below the viaduct, diesel locomotives
breathe out a low bass mumble,
an industrial orchestral section,
the herd talking in its sleep
in the Sante Fe yard.
White wreaths of exhaust
rise up like burnt offerings
to some iron heaven.
As I lean down on the dented rail
of the old bridge,
my own breath hangs like ectoplasm
in front of my face.
Ice stings my cheeks,
my eyes weep without me.
My body is only the stumbling ground
of some black light filament,
a strip of tinsel tethered
to a great black velvet dirigible
with moonlit Denver painted in glitter on its side.
I walk in praise. I jerk and bob
over ridges of mud, little dark glaciers
hard as old spilled concrete.
The frost spider unreels a thread
like a run in Lady Circe’s stocking,
icicle legs shattering into moonsilver
on the Platte, slipping cold slivers
behind my eyes, spirit acupuncture.
I feel the stars on my skin, also pinpricks:
Lost pains come back, harbingers
of that old stern joy:
The frost spider has sewn me
into a black silk sack,
I walk in praise,
and my eyes weep without me.
