Winter

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Starless corridors of night we travel

Swirling softly,

Filled with oscillating, scintillating prismic hexagons

Contemptuous of the summer greens on which good humor feasts,

Gluing our hair mucousy and cold

And drooling down our collars like nauseous sweat

Twirling gently,

Twirling gently.

The mad red halogen fire of city nights

Like diluted blood upon our path

Throws the sidewalk cracks in sharp relief

Falling softly,

Still we trip in the dark...

Grey and heavy
Dead and broken
Sliding into flannel warmth
From lonely penguin coats and muffled heads
To caves of blankets
Away from the blackness
Of funeral trees
Absorbing the blue-sky firelight of fall
Together.

Sometimes even when you're understood, the sound of the wind calls to your soul.
There is nothing outside of you that can be completely inside you.
Only the air that you breathe can see through you.
Only the backs of your eyes have seen what you've seen.
And that is how it will always be.
And there is no cure for that kind of loneliness.
No ease for such a mind.
Nothing but to bind your wounds and sing with the wind.

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