the spark metal
scrape of a
woken windmill
and i, the rotten
remnant of
warmer days,
wave in the
breath of
slow blades.

wax waif, falling
frozen as winter
wins, forgotten
abloom, yellow i
lay at your feet.

soil someday, to
pot and prune.
bury me.
i will bring you


to hurt

this is the surface

where i lay my yarn,

is my workstation

woe, wonder i

limp out over sea burnt

wood, barren splintered before

sleep, before light dies after

night swells and the smoke

from a snuffed dream

is the stuff that

stings you awake.

yet you do not

stir. powdered, dressed

to our memory you

wilt and we slump and you