Snow-puffed plumage Poem by Andrew Duncan

A Siberian wilderness turns, a thousand sleigh days on-end

to draw me into the space that has no danger
where gluts of energy vanished in their utterance
to a plane climax of effacement, that spaces out

monotony to nip in ideas their sonance
of hurt, stitching a night like toxic green stars;
sloping walls where each grain falls back and in.

Solitude takes the wanting out of want, love
sheathed in a blue heat signature, neutral, to
match the alien, in plump kilograms of old wool,

disuses this distending and narrowing in,
does not open on the rich, volatile, and piquant;
to live aimlessly and die obscurely.