Thursday, November 18, 2010


O Winter! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou build thy dark, Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs, Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car. 
William Blake

fast you approach
my heartsore
for this to bewilder
scrambled scatter
we huddle at the fences
you drag us under
wet slap
tongue swaggle
I wait for your talent
your long finger
while lights flicker and shush
where else can we pursue realms of virtue
when the herald carouses
amber and bend
time for a brimful stranger
a portion to harken
an amulet
pale cross stitch
pricked palm crease

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