once you’ve given it your own name.
Month: December 2016
belongs only to those with no need for veins, like a wanderlust that starts where the highway ends.
Winter is a protection racket
not unlike the skin disease once known as the king’s evil that could only be cured by a king’s touch.
are full of hollows and riddled with mines: a geography of loss.
The way my skin cracks in winter
maybe I’ll molt.
Ask a vintner or a fromager:
few things are more festive than decay.
leaving the car in the care
of the low sun
The forests of my earliest childhood
But fists are lonely
vulnerable things that can never match the strength of linked hands.
Lay me in a fist-sized hole
feathered with rime.
the blind dog lapping
at her reflection
Said with a dismissive tone, as if it should’ve known the sky was glass.