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