for all my exile I am tethered to the hub of my birth.
woven into the very fabric of my tatters.
in every shingle of my solitude resides an igloo
of perpetual enigma… some stoic crucible
crimping the lightning from a lodestone
bathed in Borealis while tempering a penny
for your thoughts.
to part with it… I need only have words enough
to ask you something that
my heart can burn.

like a lamp in a ghost owls’ eye;
perched on an olive branch -
from an isle of man
in some remote sea of you
where doves trim the verge
by starlight…

should the moon
be full of dark -
for all my
Valentines