pull the teeth from winter's yaw
with delicate fingers
deft hands
grimy, gutting glances
a bloodletting
consummated with
soiled paper sheets, you
milking shadows from the breasts of naked trees
closer to me than words on a page
these fragile things, like sleep
or paper thin prayers
illuminate you in fiery glass shards
for we are splintered
and sharp
for cutting
© 2011 A.g. Synclair
