Little lion
born on a March Sunday
Bug-eyed, taking on water
feelers waving numbly.
Snow in the woods
hateful cold between the trees

are like
knobby toes sucking on earth
a million seconds an hour.
A reversal of terms.

Crashing Planes into Mountains, or
Wir Sollen Nie Sterben
an album cover
The delicious word fuck
Pilate grating fingernails
u. and saxophonics

Me and a cracked sternum
a botched rebirth,
ritual ablution

A handful of slush
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black