Stacks

the wolves were young:
running like me across the
great white tundra,
faster. the skies warmed up;
the sun in it’s pale orange
beauty lit up the frost and
it’s thousand-mirror glare.

and she sat there, in a tattered
sled, “warmth! this isn’t warmth!”
she cried, sullen. there is no
warmth. here,
was a shallow mist; and her eyes,
watery, spoke of nothing.

there are cards, out on the
ice. they lay solemn, straightward.
“the ice might break,” I say.
the world tilts its head, and the ice
floats against the brazen azure sky

and you lead me, again: down this
frozen crevice of a delightful hell.
in your shadow i follow,
with heavy footsteps that
burn the snow, and coax
out of winter nights blue-tipped
flames.

But to you, i
appear forsaken, another one of
god’s many creatures;
lipless and lifeless, with
one slip too many.

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