towards winter flowers, forms of ecstatic water,
chalk lies dry with all its throats open.
winter flowers last maybe one frost
chalk drifts its heap through billions of slow sea-years;
rains and pools and opens its wombs,
bows its back, shows its bone.
both closing towards each other
at the dead end of the year - one
working through, the others thrown into flower,
holding their wings at the ready in an increasing state of crisis.
borrowed into and crumbled, carrying
these small supernumerary powers founded on breath:
chalk with all its pits and pores,
winter flowers, smelling of a sudden entering elsewhere.