Issue 128, Fall 1993
On the chine of the first white inkling of the winter
The Ravenmaster wraps his limbs in combs of wind.
It is November; the tower closes down
For night. He is wont to dwell on
Bridles, stars, medieval presaging. I will be ringed
At ankle, am a corvid thing.
Ruin is formal.
Metal, tether, one good name.
Virgin wool still with the body's oils keeps the cold, an augury.
A man who lives in a circular stair keeps watch.
The lighthouse I let go of, as a girl.
Since in your hand you seek to tame
Me, ravening, am wont to salt my own —
My will be done.