For goddesses

winter is an interstice in a tight knit goose feather bodice 

wrought by Solstice’s fey thread 

and upholstered with almanac bound Sagittarius stars; 


For mortals

seeing the queen Cold’s beaux dice her ice, with a snowflake guillotine no less, made winter less wintery 

and more of an interstice of black, 

a gap 

of conscious dark matter with inscrutable, yet palpable thoughts.


What does winter that is not winter think about us? 

What does space think about the earth at zenith flax of noon, when it is also not blond noon in so many other places on earth? 

What is sentient space’s concept of time if space is nowhere in particular?

Can rice paddies in cold blooded snow knit the zodiac’s moon chart under 

karat gold rainbows if they are in the forest where?

The oddest most deft thing happens

Old an’ moist,

the deafening noise is 

so liberal it’s leftwing; silvering of sounds

so syrupy and lush, but there’s

nobody left to hear them.


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