The Way You Occur in Winter
“One day
these years will be known as the space between
silence & enough. I still have trouble being alone
in either[.]”
i.
Beaten gold-intentioned, the hammer-hewn deal we strike
with loving wild things is knowing that
one day they won’t return. Promising depth,
love is a death attainable only by
falling into its debt. The sun is
blind, as lovers are blind in each
other, feeling until they find it an
exit worth the effort’s bother. The way
your sunset swallows me, rearranging fading haloes
at its winter angle, cornered mouths disavowing
us as we allow space enough for
loss as we come down, as we
pause, as gods watch the shapes of
worlds appearing, heat mirroring distance from a
last object of affection, desire proportional to
its torrid origin’s recollection, stranger the memory,
heavier the humidity of want, due soon
the pacing heart’s drop, its awaited break
a watch stopped. Nothing touches me until
ii.
I permeate it, dust on our tongues
dissolves into fire, shards across thoughts the
realization that glass is the tears of
sand, melting a silent chorus bearing witness
to grief wrought in windows of pain,
such that we might get caught lost
in our desert, adrift in snow blown
over those bawdy doubles we cross, a
Doppelgängbang of us which never was worth
much the fuss, but here we gather,
togethered as dew dripped into a spewed
lather of honey and bullshit revisited every
lonely season spent spitting bitterness and resentment
into the æther, oh, how I wish
you were here, dear, reappearing once yearly
to hear me beseech my readers to
heed me, for once, and steer clear
of falling for some creature so clearly
hungry to feed on fear and despair!
