winter finds warm juice to caress,
to feed on. throats are bared from
lack of flight. running is Fears
only convenience.

you are so numb. you are so dirty.

break glass seeking resolution.
wordgames are bloodsport bluebirds play
when they grow tired of falling
temperatures.

dusk is trust in dawns beginning.
and when you sleep.

when you sleep.

a sigh is a sudden approach to the
child of calm. there is reason in this,
and reason
enough.

winter steals fever from those
built to burn.
and the bluebirds

turn, look over their shoulders

and count how many are left
to break their

fall.

11/05/2003

Posted on 11/05/2003
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