It’s careless:
your back arching across time
the way you drift across miles
to stand in front of me.
We circle
in the snow
humming hymns, cheeks close.

It’s careless:
the way we smolder in the frost
a quiver between the trees
ice splintering around us.
We are stars
fallen from a fire
once bright.

It’s a walk to the barn
in the biting cold
it’s a place to hide
from wind and world.
It’s the two of us:
a warm secret
on the hay.
—
Andrew Clark is a poet whose work has appeared in The Ogeechee, The Miscellany, and The Pregnant Moon Review. He is the recipient of the Roy F. Powell Creative Writing Award from Georgia Southern University. He is a native of Asheville, NC, and is querying his Southern gothic magical realism novel. He is active on Twitter at @theandrewkclark. He is a contributor to Hilton Head Monthly magazine.