Momentum’s needle pulls the ear in its elm bark casket
under four and a half feet of ice,
past alder leaf hide windows, where it sweats shaking, boney rooms
of West European night which hydraulic over seventy-two hours
a rack from themselves that is the corpus of the lake
in armspread thinking, then the rooms, their singlebed ears, breast up points of
sparking sentence skeletons of tamarack, of cougar-wound rock, one bird in a canyon
stuffing miles into mass.
This is Tristia, here serviam’s darling pubic mound. Set the table.
Roman-candling around the henosised ear, towering nose,
pheromones of the aquatic cat; a squirrel plays dead in the green
cloud, bottom-dipping smell.
A birch’s scooping claw is caught in ice.
The tusked fish cuts and cuts over the sludge.
The ear dragged by moaning chains, gang-followed, in its quiet.