december is the dust dripping from the body
of a closed book, dry and dreamy
like an opening—like the dent
on your doughnut dimple, our lips,
loose from loving, luminous
from our icy irices
igniting;
it is what spills after the storm—
a sweet slice of sky, its silhouette
soft and soothing
like silence.
now, the moon is mounted as a mistletoe
on the tender twig of midnight, now,
our dreams, draped in december dew,
are cold kisses of eternity.
see as december drags the dead
back to breath—our bodies,
bruiseless and born
out of the broken,
wiping afresh in the white,
wet wool of winter.
