and what of it except
the stinging animal regrets
cool and white and drenched in malaise

like mayonnaise with little diamonds in them
but you can’t be a vegan
with mayonnaise.

somewhere out alone walks
in this snow
under this halo-ed moon
the girl whose nose burns
and burns

the grass crawls up
tries to get out from underneath this
aching death

and look at me here!
no manners at all!
no closer to welcoming the snow angel
who has already ransacked my blood-filled cupboard

with hands that sting with your bitter hope
and with eyes that tear thinking of your panacea,
your soft and quavering lips,
your abdomen yet tender and warm.

god – fate – muse –
how cruel minerva disdains
and how foolishly eros admonishes
and how poor pysche,
more beautiful than aphrodite,
must be tried to prove what is already hers.

it only matters by the end of it
how willing you were.
this alone is love.
and no other atonement can be made.

save me, save us
graceful, dark haired angel of the snow.

i am beginning to lose hope.


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