by kholinar


Clocks and keys, jaws and teeth
Thirteen round the rope make wreaths…
of mistletoe, and birdlime grip
to hold or strangle, take your pick

I, alchemist, drown in my solutions.



Pen-tip stabbing, carving thoughts…
the floor ablaze in swampgas visions
and fox-fire crawling down my neck.
All eyes seeing, from Argus spawned
dark and silent, mouths agape…
and piteous spectres beg in doorways
but ‘tis no letter, no invitation
It is a passion, inked with despond
they might come, but I must stay.
Yet, let this attest to her my heart…