mind.wolf

to be able to sit and stir and spin.
the heater spits and does nothing.
the winds are a howler.
and with my cross i cringe
and i curse and i twist.
and i don’t expect god to love me.
i don’t expect him to know why
i go into his cathedral tombs.
why is it that the end feels so close?
the room mutters behind me.
that grey-blue evening.
i drag its birth through memory.
knees tremble and still,
i fight these stairs.
fluid fume, you hiss with
a coward’s warning.