Wind monath, blod monath,
& enough melancholy for a soft dough,
brace of ice-spill, mace, slaughter yard, & sack.
Within: a cold sopping, a mummery spousal,
white mask in blunted pixel sleet; outside,
hungry traipsing through fallen lanes
with nothing but this swollen throat
a-begging: put your hand in my glove, love,
sing with me. Going is an ancient story.
Already day’s a mere glare, tainted;
the doves slow, fat, dun cobbles.
We know the tune. Blown-out windows.
Never mind they’ll never feed us, my Lad.
We know where the icicle is heading.
Work it all well together, and shape to the hand.
Throw in a fist of saffron for the dying sun.
Printed from Cerise Press: http://www.cerisepress.com
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