NATALIE EILBERT

Nocturne

The snow. That other life of trapdoors collapse below our feet.
We resemble what dumbly swarms March into branches, into rain.
Dear our constant giving over, what does not sit does not
Stand does not refuse cannot be kept or killed. Dear grackle, stand,
Hold out your flexed wing: under the crewel of nerves, person of
Lace and preen, begin your red vessels over, integument over, white
Land of suet floating in the throat stay down stay over tonight.
Dear frost-scorched winter, the quiet of sleep fills our mouths
With meadow. Bird, give us something enormous—