December crows still sound of Autumn
as if given two rocks they might
start a fire or invite you home. Until winter
winds remind me this is all dark optimism:
thin jackets and paper flames in frost.
You know I cannot pray anymore;
even chic morality sears my skin.
She bleeds and reaches out a hand for me
as if given two rocks I might not
still be the invisible arm bludgeoning her
with regret, with regret, with regret,
but it’s still December, regardless of whose
bright blood spills steaming on the snow.
start a fire or invite you home. Until winter
winds remind me this is all dark optimism:
thin jackets and paper flames in frost.
You know I cannot pray anymore;
even chic morality sears my skin.
She bleeds and reaches out a hand for me
as if given two rocks I might not
still be the invisible arm bludgeoning her
with regret, with regret, with regret,
but it’s still December, regardless of whose
bright blood spills steaming on the snow.
12/18/23
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