don't say anything, unless
you should open your mouth and say
here is gold, near the mossy crag
of winter, here are splinters
piled up near the cellar
where dark things grow and lissome
murmurings glow forever.
don't mistake them for embers.
here, the dirt pulse of mud and mold
stoke and choke the glimmers.
follow the river - magpies gather
your throes, the tender words you've
tossed, careless lost, and decorate
their bowers. who knew they'd love
every careful shade of gray.
love as in all things. where the river stops,
the sky stops, the trees stop, the animals
bow their heads and die. your fingers grasp
the threads and you don't know why.
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