Too cold and driven, am I? Too riven? Too much the two-spirited one?
Blame the blade: the slice between allowed/allowable.

He: one pronoun, never unleashed, seeking the opposite in its identical
Repelling (and seeking) the like charge, enticing its polar opposite.

The locked-away sound of the poet; a sad mutt in a winter
Cellar whimpering: the barely audible song of the beaten.

As the snow buries what was beautiful in spring, I peek out my blind.
Looking in: the dog walkers see a silhouette of what? A man? A woman? A fist puppet?

It’s too easy to roll over and snooze though these small, fast years.
Sleeptalker: awake! You need a more persuasive alarm, a fire engine-red bell.

Yesterday you had our future put down. Now look what’s woken up:
The Howl of a poet in mourning.

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