I have been lost,

tempered by a wind as wide

as the colours of a solar eclipse,

and the cold winter downs

that grab my hairs

in exposure.

 

I am pure in sadness,

the look of me, weighed heavy

with the white shape

my face sheds,

unlovely - the mad

truth, kept by

those

who say I am.

 

Aloft, fragile,

a salmon sky designs

my place with romance;

the sweet hurt

catching the back of my throat,

a sob

like a running hare from my chest

subdued, suspended in the cut glass fears

my loneliness excites.

There is snow;

A quick chandelier.

 

Ashamed, embarrassed,

I carry my ugliness to the light –

a bird falls,

the sounds of my neediness

like a dagger,

the stretch of my repenting wrists,

a path uncommon to a staying love,

unnatural,

 

unwanted.

 

 

The pinch of, a spectacle

onto men,

and onto angels,

 

the summer, failing to return.

 

I have no traffic, no route,

no way to exhaust my bitten lip,

the silt of red, plump,

the quivering haste -

a branch of silver birch from my throat.

Stuck, fast,

I am the wood, stripped.

 

To rid despair from the savage

of my head, to quiet the farce

of my will –

the pledge is to sleep.

 

I wed this, the beauty of evaporation.

I could never be

if thought desires.

 

Walk barren, there are no words to hold

me safe,

 

no watchman to holler

at the sight of my dead smile

 

for all the winters of my life,

never led anyone to

 

and I am hated,

despised for my stay, the moth myth, each year,

and I too must die