Dark Dawn: 1/11/16
There had been signs and portents for
a week.
Then the news rolled in all the way
from 1947
like a glaze of ice on the rotation
of the cybersphere,
like the Alberta Clipper that raged
on the day
I was born in frozen Michigan: Winter 2016
finally speaking in its natural
tongue.
And now January, its white ribs
exposed
as bitter, calcified truth, points an
icy bone
and rattles off a merciless axiom:
As David Bowie can suddenly die, so
too can you
