In the hottest bar in Wisconsin
the singer sings about blind white panic
and crystalline faces coming in from the cold.
The dying singer sings about love,
and I can see the band behind her
sighing into the lights.
In the morning, red crows bang
the high-water pylons and fold back into the sky.
The mild sounds : a moist wing, a finger in a trout,
the girl with the hissing lantern
comes down the stairs like water under ice.
The pines are deep in snow, but they don’t know it yet.