the sky is folded, folded. runes of gently shifting ashen softness, painted by moon.

a forest like this bears a sublime violence in the notes of its song; haunt this path alone and feel cradled and menaced in equal measure.

when you reach the quarry, with torchlight conduct a sweeping orchestra on the lake, her liquid throat. trace the angles of her soaring granite face.  

stand very still, feel the shivery approach of something unbearably large; a curious tongue, lightly tasting the back of your head where the thoughts run most tender.

almost december, december
- not a statement, but a question that blows the stars around.