Too cold and driven, am I? Too riven? Too much the two-spirited one?
Blame the blade: the divide between allowed and allowable.
One pronoun, never unleashed, hunting its match in the contrary
Repelling (and pursuing) the like charge; hopeless, enticing its opposite.
The locked-away sound of the poet; a sad dog in a winter.
Cellar whimpering: the barely audible song of the beaten.
Sleepwalker! You needed a more persuasive alarm, a fire engine-red bell!
Too easy to roll over and sigh though these small, fast years.
As the snow buries what was beautiful in spring, I peek out the blind.
Looking in: the dog walkers see the silhouette of a man, a projection, a hand puppet.
Yesterday you had our future put down. Now look what’s woken up:
The clear and joyful howling of the poet in mourning.