As I skimmed through some old poetry the other day, I discovered a piece from before the Revolution. The original was terrible, but I saw a salvageable core at its heart. As an exercise in contrast, I present to you the original draft, followed by the revision. *Note: the revision is still a work in progress.


WINTER WANTON

I know you are
like paper and that your skin shivers
under blue sweating lidless moons, dry sheaves.
Salty bite hissing up against the leeward side of the wind,
the bareboned white of your shiny lips,
the cedar in your dollhouse hair.

The breath of yours
that slithers between my teeth
and expires in a frail shudder on the cusp of my throat
does not remember its bellows, no patience
with the slow weep of the sun’s bleeding fire
across the uncurled fields languishing smoky and green,
their ruts hushed and expectant for the
silent-jawed movement of cloud driving cold
between them.

I know you are
like paper and your skin shivers
and is soaked in blind ditches sluiced open
with rain. I don’t want to disappoint baby but
your ink has run about under your eyes
and made you appear
so wanton.

WINTER WANTON (REVISION)

I know you are
like uncurled fields,
panting
from the clouds’
silent-jawed rush
through your furrows.

and baby I can tell
when the rain
has
sluiced you open.