January 22, 2016

midnight, hunting

midnight, hunting 

for hat and what 
hat with a double you 
wear that, yes, what will do...

crisp ale-ing it as gnaw boned Winter 
wears the long night in pierce howled ravenous 
rapacious, poem says, almost asking, 

"did you guess, knives would have souls...?"

winter as a wobble turn stubborn hearth play 

acting in the sweeps, circled and away 
winter is ritual, sway almost(s), orbits
insides the domiciles, when death is lattice 
when floating or falling, window leaning, dreaming 
when burning through November, still stacked out back 
yes, we're winter too... 

we're watching what goes on here, warming our bones 
at the near edged end of the world, in a poem perhaps too...

where I hunt lustily, after midnight
for some kind of thievery and inspiration 
some fleeting permanence 
that comes from listening 
finding music by accident
between the murder and birdsong 
of humanity, some melody 
I can find myself with 
clinging to a scent 
of my own self progressing  
while the world teems 
too far past wild 
to ever know 
to enjoy having 
a soul and seasons 
to play in...

I improvise portents, when this cold, hence the 
crisp ale and the cutlery imagery part of the program 
that's all folks...



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  3. Loving the sneaky "W" of winter's hat.
    "winter as a wobble turn" is fantastic.
    Too much to love here to mention. Nice to meet a fellow player of words.

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