The black brook water's win-
try omerta ,
its tongue of stone
and lip of ice
propound the law
now, in our solstice.

Nothing responds out there,
the needling snow's
each crystalline ar-
ticle at once
lost in the slow
spiraling silence.

An east wind wastes its breath.
The truth's too dark,
guarded, like death
in Dallas or
Danaang. . . . O mark
down a dark hour

in the black brook water's win-
try omerta .
Its tongue of stone
and lip of ice
propound the law
now, in our solstice.