Stark Heaven
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Each winter has its inopulent day.
In the field where lost souls gathered, vibrato
through the trees, impressionistic—

a faulty realistic. I believed that faith
was a box. (That once we were in it,
the lid would snap shut

with a calm & a clasp.) We’d escape

to our own interior gaze, which grows
in one direction & with the taut
precision of violin strings.

Now, a bleating school of winter trees.
What is this new deliberation on my hands?

by Louise Mathias, from Lark Apprentice, New Issues Poetry & Prose
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