twenty-seven hunters
scramble along my scalp

twelve or so cold leads;
shadow and rind, infected
follicles

twenty-seven hunters
snagged beneath my
fingernails

working life

we are
beautiful until we
hang

the space between our
toes and the
ground is what
puffs round the
sky’s edge

while the world
spins, what we
were will
sway

the sun will
leave to set–our
daytime design
to decay with
dusk

dipped red from

dusk's fire, all

winter long an

upward reach

will you sky

forever?

your burnt fingertips

dim brown,

nothing remains.

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

breath.

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

lay.

wisp breath between the

letters, sad stroke strike

sign a sigh. loop-lost

longing the flyleaf to

fold through i dare not

stridestain this crisp,

clean page

the rug of dust lay

delicate, an early winter's

sad soot cling

quiet, we breathe

out curl up

and fade

a sleepceasing thunderclap

bye bed footpad on

floor, your sleeptouch

who are you the

wall you make love to

the wall and

rattle the morning roars the

sky falls the

day breaks