Within these pages, ember-ghosts entwine,
And long, black rivers shine like tarred-out wine.

Sunflowers hold gold; winter still will bite,
Icicle tears turn breath to brittle night.

Here love is iron, barbed, a rusted key;
It bites, then brightens, binding you to me.

A hammer-fist on glass makes spidered pain new,
And memory rains, then dries to ash-streaked stain.

Rocking chairs, once meant to soothe, turn to dread now;
They swing like storms above a child's cold head.

Birdsong with beeps; crows counsel, sharp and rough;
They ask what you will bear, and what’s enough for you.

Roots drink red blood; the silent forests pray;
A grandfather-god lifts stars like lambent clay.

A tall man waits there; streetlights blink and fade;
The searing needle steers your will through shade.

These poems are matchflames in the midnight room;
They stitch your heart with light, and loosen doom.

Read “Love Her Blind;” let broken visions rise,
And find your own wide sea behind your eyes.