Pulp & Juice

he dogfights through snowy patches
for the chill chance
to sock his ropy limbs
in the overwintering currents
every expression has an appropriate scarf
had we forgotten our gloves
retaining cryptic coloration
fingertips hardened and blue
when the wet of the air reduced
suspending ice crystals
he grabbed my hair in his hands
and crushed the hues silent

Songful moon to jar the misstated, a craft of ruinous themes, only. Whitewashed embrace, confined against an edict of paperless pages. Fuse the shattered frown and the brightest field that you flower, satellite to suspension, precarious motility, this mortality. I pass away on the other side of an asterisk, emphasizing a field of hymns, or hims, ensanguined of all suggestion.

An olden ‘o’ wrench of mouth on the syllables where heard your name. We can die, said the dice to the palm. Our arms held open, embracing email accounts, those brackets, brackish. We augment argument with one chant, the unworthy stream of online stereos, tuning us further into the clouds. So my nightmare, inside my mouth, its plastic patter partner, lighting a candle, in the realm of no more.