Tchaikovsky committed a
             sin when
he blacked out
             the swans

 

Of corporeal songs he must
pose quietly
             in a daily glowering ban
and let everyone look

 

* * *

 

We are those who
             bide their shots

 

Our beacons are dead   but robbed
             often and notwithstanding     
                         the raids and routs
in their stretchers
             we genuflect
                         with one hand
and desire fried ice cream
with the other

 

* * *

 

All our temperaments
             are still
in flux

 

A little work would
             show them we’re
legit          with night’s arteries
             rife with the ribs             of buildings

 

* * *

 

War’s end is so              far away
             night remembers us feasting
on baklava
                         standing berserk
       in the range

 

* * *

 

Silver moon of nature! Come
             fuck us, send death’s
snow-colored structures
             the wild trees
to calculate our landmarks
             and fool our words

 

It is folly             and sad

 

* * *

 

             Liege of the highest
head like waxen sugar
             if this forest is to
                         become a refuge
it must recover
             and be recovered

 

How closed off we are
             like a reflection of ourselves

 

* * *

 

Our friends, our families say
             green truths of day are
broken in half

 

             But that the new
year will knead   some grace
             goddamn,                       demand

In colder Januar
             morning’s           the dome
                         to see   ourselves
             in a warlike frost                   to be
present in      shadow lands,   warming

 

Warn me, will you?
      
No, sweet day,                     the sun’s
                         music’s                   another
             dark drinking

 

* * *

 

To speak of all
             the cities in light
                         wilderness formed
a book
             and showered all
                         the boozy long
days          and years
    in winds and storms and sleeze

 

I’d suggest heaven but
             night has fallen, a reckoning

 

* * *

 

You’re building a stamp
             for this day,                       immersed
                         under drunken ales mussed
so that your bees
             get bound
in the snow           with caring

 

In their dens squirrels
             form
a lesser beach from
             pseudo kernels,
their dens the wintry kite
             that strings out
when you pass and die

 

* * *

 

             Heart-stricken, a star-gable mutes
your woe, besieged and taken
             with some stark musket

 

Wildcats and foxes           forego luxe, go
             strategic, free themselves
of all                but                       their wind-torn hearts
             find sickened beauty                      in blizzards
learn to hold                an angle
             in time’s engine deck,
laugh at a long, dolorous scene
             outfox the waxing snow
                         with eyes of a hawk

---

Chad Reynolds is the author of five chapbooks, including Drummer and Eau-de-Vie forthcoming from Greying Ghost and Sixth Finch in early 2015. His poems have recently appeared in CutBank, the minnesota review, Sink Review, Ghostwriters of Delphi, Art Focus, and So & So Magazine. He lives in Oklahoma City where he co-runs Short Order Poems.