Instant chapped lip moving from
icicle breath to sweaty sigh in this
storm of memory this blizzard
of foreign hope, not sure of the
goal but **** sure of the end.

Old wood frames where you
make sure to stand when the
ground starts shaking, on the
other side of the room, knees
knocking on hard floor and
trembling fingers gripping
wet splinters, deep cuts.

There's a collective noise,
a chorus of claws and some
babbling basil-soaked bird
is hobbling across the house,
caked in ****** muddy sap.

I'm just organizing myself,
don't you pay any mind.