when it is all fear

When it is all fear, the ribcage

sprung against hydrostatic pressure,

the jack hammer resilience supporting

and punishing. Keystones crumbling,

the omens along the fault line and the

mason's hand fidgets in the lee line.

Where. Where am I in these distances.

If I could read then I would have

someplace to say I am but I can't see

past these automatic trees. There were

bridges: for burning, for jumping off,

or for finding trolls under.

An arms width or less if you could

stand near the right place. A finger

relaxes into an arc. Resting only on

two points, such a small connection

when it is easy

.

still life

I dropped my last silver bullet into a bottle of holy

water and no matter how much I bite my lip I can't turn

it into wine. Pearl buttons, I count them like prayer

beads. Small teeth holding still.

The blood of the night seeps into the sheets, the morning

lies cold, waiting. The long thin strips of flagellation,

the rivulets of dreams that erode further the small hopes

precarious in their curio.

I awake to the languid call of wolves still sweet in the air.

The crucifix worms its way between my ribs, It is easy to

wish for a soft hand when these tiny fingers curl into my

heart. A gods death isn't easy on any one. It is a language

of twigs, the constant rearrangement of clicks and scrapes.

Paraphrased flowers and thorns. A trembling breath to

answer. It is dilation and rapid breathing. Blood too close,

turgid and twisted pushing the iron from my hands. I roll into

a fist and fall back into sleep

.