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.

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