Mayday

3 May

GOLDEN HARE

“Come into the warmth,
dull your fragile senses
sharpened by the tang of smoke
and rain.

Come. I will
wine you and dine you
and trap you
in a misery of glass.”

Do not touch me.
I will dissipate against your arms
and leave you holding bones,
masses of soft hair.

And that’s both a warning
and a threat. It’s a screech,
a snarl,
a half-whispered
whimper of despair.

(and that’s both the snake
and the hunter. I am fear,
or feared, an unforgiven,
unforgiving
tornado of a girl.)

weaknesses …
and there, the hiss
of quiet mist.

The kindest things about a fortress
are all in the foundation.

si prega di non toccarmi,
aiutami,
non toccarmi,
non toccarmi. 

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