oh, these long and obtuse nights, evenings
with little cheer, filled with wine and smoke,
a hissing fire and invasive shadows.
tonight all the winds of the world
converge upon this land, testing the limits
of tree tops and threatening to scatter
even the stars from their impervious perch.
i am shut in, solitary
and confined to this hermetic duty,
watching over wrinkled logs who journey
toward their bones of ash.
the wind could kill me if it wished.
i could die and be reborn by the end of this poem,
broken and reassembled, torn apart
by this hounding hunger
and passed through the guts of despair
before emerging with naked wounds
and wishing for a new song,
wishing for you still, for an impossible spring,
a peace treaty with gravity, a fresh memory bank,
empty of desire, needing nothing.
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