That time of year again,

For smoothing the scarlet,

And polishing buttons,

Listening for the whisper,

Of a conscience on the breeze,


But the fireflies scream that I am deadwood,

Waiting for winter.



A pinhead of unwritten ink,

An unsung experiment.


Nights alone,

In a whisky bath gone cold,

Thrashing one’s own shins,

Until blood blooms in the water.


Five hours until the first trumpet,

Until we spill our emptiness in the woods,

Cover it with dead leaves and bonhomie,

As fragile as the fox cub,

Between the teeth of the terrier.