print previewback MATTHEW MINICUCCI
Brief Song of the Almost-Lost
Less to say in winter,
to be sure. Less to consider and less
appears beneath the debris that still
somehow collects. We connect,
briefly. We fan out like the tail
of a cornered animal, though not
so cornered as it thinks. The things
said in context; trail left behind. I’ve
decided to follow my mother’s advice:
guilt. Nothing else. Nothing more
to be transcribed as the bottle
bleeds out. Nothing more to say
about the past. Once, I studied
all the long forgotten kings; gathered
what few fragments remained
of their tongue: brief song of the almost-
lost; mothers putting to rest their sons. 
Brief Song of the Almost-Lost
Goat