by Sean Frasier '06

Another day spent scratching towards its end.
Through frosted glass a frozen flower stood.
Tomorrow is witch hazel, we pretend.

And morning’s mercy wilts as hours send
us bruised to evening’s long black hood.
Another day spent scratching towards its end.

Our bed an arctic prairie, the naked bend
of your back a snap of tired wood.
Tomorrow is witch hazel, we pretend.

Dry words crumble from your shadowed lips again
and shallow sleep shapes where kisses should.
Another day spent scratching towards its end.

The trampled sun is dead, the moon ascends
like a yellow dirge. Today we both withstood.
Tomorrow is witch hazel, we pretend.

Once in a garden a beaten poet penned
I failed the very best I could.
Another day spent scratching towards its end.
Tomorrow is witch hazel, we pretend.