words are dying
painfully
in a hairy storm
of electric eruptions

beckoning winter’s
deathly tempest
rampart
like an iceberg fist—

—My fires have been talking
far too closely with my waters

of how our love
could be a rock elephant—
a temple, whole, or magnificent
like an incantation
on a balanced leg;
but you, scissor-cat
of forget-me-nots;
but you—favorite
flower eating our paper mouse:
pining affection is thin
and imbalanced inertia
in love is a bolted door.