2/3
A child of impulse, without glory
Bears the rotten fruit of allegory --
(a/a/a/b → close off, let down)
The iron cold of fe
Bruary
Broken nails and cowrie shells
Shelling out shards of excuses,
Excuse me, excuse me, cowed
Cowering, crowded
I still can’t stand seeing pictures of myself, pictures that I did not take
Seething with sea -change
Churning the seen-through waves that waver,
The days unfold, season by season
Still green beneath the plasticked glass as though it had fallen only a week ago, still just-browning and spotted. The fine-boned ribs of a fine lady’s fan, the birdlike bones just beneath her hand
A liberating apathy, choking and tangling with its loose ends
Persephone reckless unbridled
How, in the winter, she must hate to call home
For when her mother weeps (grows cold/stills) in the winter
She looks to the dark damp stones,
Coarse and unperturbed
She cares not
Persephone, harlot lipped, she kisses forbidden fruits, sucking out the seeds
One / by / one
The dark nectars x drip
Down her chin
Staining her white frock
Write more about persephone → lens??
The wanton persephone
Takes her leave of leaf-wreathed bereavement
Hoary reason in early frosts
When you find fruit that’s not supposed to be there, No one’s yet tried to bend it sweet Bloating its bright skin sallow
I’m worried tomorrow will be the same.
That every day will be the same.
And each night,
Tired and hoping and dreading
A shutting down day, the sun sluggish faint and not forrhcoming
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