North by North

I can't make sense of the half-
frozen river. There is nothing
between the black water and ice
except those jagged waves.

It appears a grave in winter
next to another open grave.
Let's not pretend those are souls
on the surface, people in the steam

rising. Those aren't grieving trees
without birds in their hearts'
branches. The sky is not lowering
the sun into dissolutions of snow.

What do I know? I see the line
of others, approaching elegiac,
and my words are swept away
like black hats or umbrellas

bent backward. The river seems
inside out, so I succumb
to numbly turning aside whenever
the wind finds this particular station.

Christopher Title lives and teaches in the Twin Cities area where he also produces Barbaric Yawp, an open mic reading series. His work has appeared in South Ash Press, Living Out, rock paper scissors, Asphalt Sky, Konundrum Engine Literary Review, and Sleet Magazine.