St. Home

Hard frost drops, buckles black blooms
in pewter sheen. I am loom.

What to weave? Silver threads of my head,
the dog's cinnamon fur. Barbed stems,

the spider's nocturnal script?
Hair that is both plant & animal

as day expires fast, as if to obliterate
the distinction. Separations are never clear.

The lone twist of pure rose-flesh among the canes;
impress of the deer's cleft hoof, vaginal there.

It was warm when you sailed away.
Reunion is illusion, these boots of leaves

whisper. Rime shackles my ankles
as promise unravels the day's sham veil.

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