The Cattle Were Lowing
       

It might also have been a sleigh ride.
Mozart's sister, a perfect oval and more
than perfect incline,
Tucked into a blanket, laughs
For the first and last time in her life.

Genealogies tickle a little, and then a long
pain afterwards—
Pain of connection, most awful
Pain of separation every Christmas.
Even angels find their armor
burdensome then.

We rode across the snowy plain. The earth
Was mirror-glass ground into a fine powder.
Oh do not stop. Do not stop ever. I
Will give you a book of matches if . . .

There is the first of three dances still to consider,
And poverty, sole purpose of the wren.

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Copyright © 2013 Donald Revell All rights reserved
from The Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission