No gods will be born this December eve as we stand shod to knees in snow under hard stars within a black ring of
The laser eye blinks as your measured step breaks its ankle-high sight; you’re hypnotized by the mural’s newsprint grayscales, drawn into the vacuum of
Never mind the grand green vistas, the granite-walled highways, the crunch of tires on a dusty dirt road. Forget the wild blackberries lining the
Under March skies, palette shifting white to blue, I arm with steel, rusty teeth, hack, attack the thickets— no prince in search of kisses.