death
in the snow here i am warm. my blood still white hot gushes from my side over my thighs. oxygen sliding rasp-like under the skin. before me the dark cedars across the lake the trace of my solitary prints fast fading. the trees creak in the cold northerly the dogs barking on my crimson trail. a limb from a drowning tree presses into my back. holding my attention. like a page. i lay like a broken brush not quite in the centre, my hair blood-soaked and drawn across by the wind, streaked, tapering
soon to be scattered in flames
disintegrating in the summer blue lake
a cold corpse frozen in wait
gushing hot blood
ink
honey
the sweetness soon follows the cold. the dogs, pincer-like, as i float on the surface tension, revolve couterclockwise
how he stands above me. the boy. his sword is clean white gleaming in the snow. the forge line i know like the skin of my palm. gripping the hilt. his fresh iron blood lighting iceblue eyes as he raises with two fists
brown and white volcanic water
the smooth neck of my first wife
wet hair on my forehead
spots of snow,
regret,
sky
