windthrows beneath a reverse offing
yawning like death itself
fallen spires degrade black
green becomes black and dead
clasm sweeps the meadows
rot, necrosis
fucks like ice through deserts
the windthrows yawn
and howl like wolves,
like death itself
like a wolf
having lost
to the elders
the battle of power
now chained to humiliation totems
last in line for food
and for the lusciousness
of the wolfmother vulva.
oracles in sentinels
outposts
watchtowers of saudade
on the verge of unknown moors
even
the white hell of winter
predicts fortune, growth
bearing witness at the peril of a forest's death---
even the foxes gather at the council
they never show up
but it is important this time.
so important the oaks shake even;
last time the oaks shook and the foxes came,
the world went to shit.
the spoor
of northern vipers
sprinkled with the bones of oracles
fangs that pierce as if solemn
in their bite
out sips blood
from wounded white wrists
that seem more grey than red,
like most human hearts
i suppose.
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