12/5/09

the chill knots itself in my hair and a wetness from the wild purple night drips onto cracked lips, sliding down my ridiculous scarf and dusky cotton coat. this wind could wake the dead. cats past nine lives hiding under hurricane houses and early nineties scrap metal. the red-head, sugar cane, static television smile predicts southern snow and the city repeats itself while familiar rain grows faint. the hollow branches i can see from my window have been arguing for hours. sometimes i think they're just as indecisive as i am. looking into the mirror, counting lies backwards. ice and pine cones in my throat.

dear, deer

for months i watched
a brittle wick burn
to the basement of
a pint-sized urn
and the last layer of
vanilla wax dilute
swallowed by a flame,
somber and mute.

i could have put it out,
used my last bit of rum.
i could have stole the lake,
harbored in my lungs.
but the drunk deer-eyed flashes
were more vital to the martyr
and the sun forced a dance
atop the salty water.

the twisting of my body,
the acid on flesh
and finally the aftermath,
choking ill breathes.

and oh, how those questions kill.
the rot of the vines-
some dumbstruck frost tree
with camouflage eyes.
and the smell still lingers,
magnetic to your nose.
i sealed all my senses
so that i would not know.