Thursday, December 17, 2009


until my fingers frigid and
my fingers are cracked
the rinds of time write them
bursting with small signs
of age and crusted blood
from well to what is unclean
uncertain for love living
along side the snow covered hills
trunked along side rivers
embedded in trial
possessed new languages
obsessed with old traditions
on trade posted parts
replaced his rocking chair
with a seed and shovel
until my fingers are cracked

1 comment:

matt at shadow of iris said...

This is very enigmatic. I didn't really want it to stop.