I would be willing to go way of all flesh,
if it meant I could feel those estranged fingers
graze my brazen cheek,
to feel the blooming heat
of your anatomy and will.

Eyes of glacial stone,
heart of ruby,
clear, rich, and red.

Frozen fountain,
a grotesque carved waterspout,
the throat of some fanciful life-blood
that has been congealed by cold,
the triumph of frost.

It would be pleasing to recall
the blue Steller's jay
with its shrill trilling
and hopping about,
so blithe amongst the Hawthorne trees,
keeping watch over the graves
of those sacrificed to the Arctic blaze.

In my bowels are hot ashes,
remains of the cursed one,
my hollows, a feverish season,
a raving desire for the pure allure
of dark hair
and embroidered tongue.
As pure as the snow,
pure as the cold,
licking that which is within...

These ember days,
a running course,
my body, a votive offering.

Over caffeinated and underfed,
what a curious life I've led...
With nothing to show,
as in, no dough
but perhaps I'll get paid when I'm dead.

Festooned with the heraldry of doom,
a gilded, wainscoted room,
whose occupants drink ale in an oozing swarm
while harpers harp a solemn tune.

The lioness gives obeisance to the new king
with an offering
of suffering,
and warm droplets of water...
Two fates inseparably soldered
by misfortune,
on this, the longest night
then toward the light
and not beyond.

Again, backwards, repetition, turning.
A yule tide with no pull
from the heavenly orb, burning.

To swim with the river in June...

I still remember
the coldest night I remember.
Poker,
whiskey, and snow.
Willowy hair of smoke and icy breath,
the fingers of early Winter
creeping up my thighs and inside of me--
freezing my innards, a corpse.

But a flower,
the bravest of winter,
braver than I,
who can only glimpse beauty,
but never come so close to it.
To penetrate such stillness would surely finish me.
Abiit ad  maiores.
She has left well.

But,
you know,
like,
uh.

alluring sun-drenched
brides beckon, saxophones drift.
squalid cellos. dream.