1.6.1 The dreams of queens

It's not going to work today, not with
crampons,nor tethers
Out across the fields
the bleak land lies quiet, frozen
the air stinging and unkind

Here in tightfisted silence
It seems apropos to offer up
joy for lent, or
bas relief for a fast

Here in the moribund
afternoon, the advent chill of evening
some of us, I know,would proffer up
bees knees, or some days, even
the clean queen's dreams