// seasons //

Paper tissue snow
collects like crystals dusted on trees.
The distant hands of an astral clock,
tapping the sap veins of porcelain ice,
will hold together gray skies.
A life lost is coming in close
as the printed steps you once made
toward me
are falling softly
My arms are blue rivers
spread by the moon
wide apart,
as the silence buds,
dies in quiet.
If only just now, our bodies buried
long inside,
inhale deeply the lungs
of the turning dark
of seasons.
Winter fires, blind,
my tongue the curl of cold smoke
suckles the flesh of a gliding frost,
night winds licking
on the tender wrist
of another





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