the chill pricks the heels and hips of
the last thorned words on silken lips-
and i, by glistening Ginghers hewn
brightly knife-edged i/ am, a prune.
& the croon of the clip is chrome, creeping crone, i woke at
the witching Our (bidden by the third sister whose shears it seems
are not so sharp as mine; and she asked, could she please
begborroworsteal to silver snip the loose ends, ends, end time?; i
nodded, nearly napping (ah distinctly i remember, it was in the bleak december),
and my memories are daisy chains on doorknobs anyways, rotting-
does a cool mind slow the decay
?
i think it may
i think it might
roses are violet
in deep winter night
)
***
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