End of the Heart

Ah, you ring:

like lead.

Your are the

end of the heart.

Can you

leave me,

remaking every night

the flight

of the sickle?

This is the

polar morning

in arctic

weeds,

feeding on ice,

collapsing:

You will

stay to see

how any hour

ends,

and I will

walk the tundra

honing with

the scythe.

Bruce R. Macdonald