the seasons are one season. winter is spring.
i have no books to tell me so, but my wings glisten regardless.
i have no barter to gain a farthing for now...
but i wait patiently.
and nothing has my heart as much -
as Nothing has my heart.

the armor of quiet fire is not absurd.
it's a bold thing, tramping the woods of frost
and fecundity.
it broods as if
i move through the quagmire
of our dystopia... constantly -
raving at the heavens
for the price
of a now.

i have no choice but the choice i've chosen
and random is the language of poets
who know it.

II


but now
is the window
that breaks a silent truce.
a rude plume of anguish
stunning the forest
of your precious
mushrooms
for stale
fruit.

we are a
glorious wrong
righting itself
in the face of a faceless
face.

we are how
we love nothing
and that is our
place

somehow.