The iced ground is steeped
in syllables and cinders,
boot souls and boot heals. 

Prophet of the Tulips,
you never spoke,
but they still grew.

She breathes out the last of the morning
in the dew on her lips.

Fossilization

Upon a slender line your hand does wave
To dolloped heart strings all at once undone.
A broken beat against the door behaves
As strewn within the blood the white has gone.
Oh, lost as nickels in palms ne'er tightly closed,
A dime and penny sink among the eyes
And out the light that begging iris proposes.
On top, the puddle rings with whistling flies,
Pooled amber o'er their wings is caramelized.
Around in rings the wood engulfs the old
And cut in crimson skies the door is realized
So knocked in walls out walls by windows sold.
Ring right your hand and calm your wavering pulse
Not new for heart strings' snapping ancient force.

Egh, sonnets.

And her hands on her arms—
crumbling bricks
pool around her thighs
Take up arms
create a visage
in cool waves of fires
and the bright spots they leave
forever in her eyes