Does it feel cold to you, or is it
like oatmeal eaten by Orcs. Grody to the max.
Does cleanliness trump fiber?  Does the difficult matter less than the shiny?
In bed, two nudes are covered in soot & sawdust.  When they move to
the kitchen, a clown appears, all fire & cloud.
Somewhere, someone takes off their jacket.
Somewhere, someone misses a lover.
Somewhere, a sheet of metal for a bed.  Two smokestacks
filled to the brim with melting brie. Really now
taste the salt in its molecules.
Somewhere, soot is mixing with sleet, mixing
clarity and ash, water and the memory of fire
following my feet. O, dreamer
of chain-mail warriors.
Somewhere, a skyline is covered is chimneys & smokestacks.  The night is
and my little convolutions
of tedium is this landscape. Face it labor's boring and so is romanticizing it.
The Greeks built everything. I don't
believe you.
To believe you is to leave the tree of my own instincts. To leaf in winter with
forgotten honey mustard, a refrain for your mistaken identity