circa sept. 2009, re: wintertimes, seven

It was our hair there, the smell of sleep-

hot cocoa fluttering up around all us as a silk garment
her voice,

a clashing of pans

Coffee beans being crushed into red, sweet earth

violins screeching

wind rustling between my knees.

There are tree branches,

A thousand suns exploding in my throat;

nails continually being dug into my side.

(Old wood, blood, liquid metal as beads of sweat

camping in each bud) My arms as pillows,

the mug warming my hands, but wool blankets are like soil-

"moss in my hands, moss in my hands, moss in my hands," I keep thinking,

but all I hear is buzzing silence