2 Poems
Into the Mist
Frost crackles
beneath your stagger until
you stop,
stock-still,
surrounded by plinks
of picks,
whispers rippling
through mist:
nothing’s as
nothing as
it should be
none of this
none of this
should exist
Nocturne
The lantern creaks
on its hook.
Rats gnaw in the attic.
Your brain throbs
like a feeding tick
as you reach
to bolt the door
to winter’s ravage,
to wolves you feel
watch you sleep.
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