on changing seasons — in response to this poem by the alleged kat
The long breath is coming.
It awaits its turn at my windowpane,
having the patience of a white cedar
churning oil to disinfect
this annual decomposition.
With it, the pecking of crows
that would fray even the mightiest
of sails, sinking every heart of me
in reflections, scraping empty cupboards
that’ve been picked clean,
even the ashen crumbs.
Let us keep a little summer
in our lockets, to buoy us
when grey clouds lodge.
Furiously thrusting into their winter,
thinking they can clutch our names
when the wind snarls.
I will strip off each sonant before
they catch me, replaying my efforts
to regain helmsmanship of this ego.
Shambles of a fragmented echo
endure to hail your skin
as my own.
If tongues utter our gospels
to the mirror three times, we may
rage against the coming speculations
of the divine, or encircle
these damp feathers
as an exalted wreath,
honoring the tyranny within.