i. here is the vast sea of winter, and my heart is a tiny stowaway. planks creak and nag, beams shift and i draw deep lines with my pacing.
the pulse deadens. i am bailing out buckets upon buckets of cold.
no-- no to you-- no to your blackstrap eyes and drumskin,, no to the reds of your history and wine your siren-song; our enigmatic quips and endless defenses, our poses
like some familiar cuteness, forgotten.
oh, the snow can wage. let it.
don't we already know its deep silence? its dull weight? and, ultimately, its secession? sigh. what more can we say of a force whose only power is in its accumulation?
ii. bury me. cretinize me, i am prepared to lose. dole out your days to me, january, lye-soaked,, in an effort to leach some fractured version of our memory:
my hands, your mouth moving infinitely in the dark, the way light reflects on sugar.
by no, i mean,