not the glow of fresh fallen snow
but of hot gun metal
and dripping crimson
stolen from a city son

the ogres have little leeway
before they learn the reappraisal
of northern grace
when the underfoot victim
barks
get that goddamn
sinister cylinder
out of my face

[2/2]

there it is again
the thing i cannot shake
and if with this return i break
my heart — i beg — do not stake

i may survive this yet

[3/3]

roaring to my corneas and
whistling slickly a sick tune
i know too well from those late nights spent
listening to ice in tumblers and
peering through green glass for a meniscus or
some other indicator of how much music
remains in the bottle

[2/3]

and so you must forgive it
for being impolite
[2/2]

weaved by dexterous limbs and
digits you've hopscotched across
family trees?
what all have you seen
with that fish eye?
i am told you can scry
so please supply
a revelation worth the disgust
[2/2]