In this winter called Leviathan,
gorged be the meddles of men
lurched there, rustbound in ice
And all that arcs over, whether
the crust limbed trees, or the white
tresses of sleet pinged on our heads,
mocks like a maul.
Roused and thus cursed by the makers
of beasts and things craving anvils
and the nails of undoing, undoing,
undoing us all.
And though it was said “Thou breakest
the heads of Leviathan in pieces…”
it is the heads of all men that break,
it is the wilderness fed.
Image: Viktor Omy on Unsplash