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.