in this
our first
winter
when our
letters
turn toward
days
and years

a
muttered blissful
reign

bound by
lazy cursive

and the blood
of saints
asleep

unborn

fed to beasts
who sink like
thorns

in the fleshy sides of
remembrance

to rest

softly

resolved

to erase

this
burden

born
deep
in velvet
arms

which span
the ever-narrowing

delicate
eternal