winter ate summer

Winter ate summer
and made a mess, now
i look for spiders
in every glove
and every coat-arm.

winter ate summer
and I look amiss
because I can't grow
a beard.

winter ate summer
and the sun watched
from its plumb point in the sky,
then it frowned south.

winter ate summer
and now I wake in the dark,
feeling the pulse of mystery
as I slip my arm out
from under her head,
breathing words
that send her back to her dream.

winter ate summer
and the sky is never clear
but something about it;
something about
the slow grey clouds
confuses my sensuality,
and I bloom
in the black black black.

winter ate summer.