{"id":1272,"date":"2011-10-03T22:12:46","date_gmt":"2011-10-03T22:12:46","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?page_id=1272"},"modified":"2011-10-04T22:54:48","modified_gmt":"2011-10-04T22:54:48","slug":"marc-vincenz-1011","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/marc-vincenz-1011\/","title":{"rendered":"Marc Vincenz"},"content":{"rendered":"

Cold Pollen<\/strong><\/p>\n

Father built this land from the mud up
\nwith his perfect green hands.
\nNow, three days on the moor,
\nnothing to eat and the birds have left us.
\nDead crackle of weed as the ground hardens beneath
\nand the cold sings in our bones.
\nWe know foxes are hiding in hollows and the fish lie
\ncrystal-still on the lakebed dreaming.
\nHunter\u2019s shack on the horizon, a crooked tooth whistling
\non a hillock. It\u2019s rammed shut, padlocked for thaw.
\nWhat was it she said?
\nSomething about milkweed to soothe the child that May brings
\nscreaming. I know I should seek it out,
\nbut again my hand returns to that which lies within
\nand the door flies off in butterflies of rust.
\nThirty years ago we settled east, but the moor, the moor swallows
\nthe heath as the desert swallows the moor
\nand the wind grows, the wind always grows.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Pillowtalk<\/strong><\/p>\n

Like the snow\u2019s silence
\nthat finger-sifted silence, the silence
\nthat brushes up against your feet,
\na windswept wish of muffled morning,<\/p>\n

the sentient footprints at the door.
\nLike the ebullience of padded feet,
\nthe trickling forces of godhead
\nand the silence pulling amongst trees,<\/p>\n

within the stretching grasses,
\nthe mother-glare\u2014
\nthe wishing for forgiveness,
\nthe never-forgetting<\/p>\n

in the trails and tracks and wheelruts,
\nthe ever-narrowing, the crepuscular,
\nthe snow crawling into bed
\nand the heartbeats,
\nthe everything-you-think-you-know<\/p>\n

rearing, rearing, rearing,
\na wetness that dwells
\nand the tablespoons upon tablespoons,
\nlike the snow\u2019s silence<\/p>\n

that finger-sifted silence,
\nthe rake upon the garden bed
\nand the roses following their pink and white and red;
\nand you in your spectacles,<\/p>\n

reading yet again,
\na finger-sifting,
\na forgetting,
\na swirling,
\nletting go.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Cold Pollen Father built this land from the mud up with his perfect green hands. Now, three days on the moor, nothing to eat and the birds have left us. Dead crackle of weed as the ground hardens beneath and the cold sings in our bones. We know foxes are hiding in hollows and the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"parent":934,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1272","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\nMarc Vincenz - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/archives\/marc-vincenz-1011\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Marc Vincenz - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Cold Pollen Father built this land from the mud up with his perfect green hands. Now, three days on the moor, nothing to eat and the birds have left us. Dead crackle of weed as the ground hardens beneath and the cold sings in our bones. 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