From whose womb comes the ice?

Cold Fates

When the pale sun whelps sundogs,
heraldic blazon of Jack Frost,
and the fallen leaves still burn with dead light

the fates weave cloth of snow,
a hush of rosaries rotating in the loom,
crystal scissors cutting choirs
of angels out of numb air—

Breath deep,
take in the holocaust
of dawn in late autumn.
Take the ember on your tongue,
suck the icy marrow:
By this sacrament
be unhouseled,
unshriven. 

When the expelled breath hangs
like a white torch
over a burnt offering
the cold fates can hear you speak. 

Selah. Let us pray.

Today is 12.19.18.11.10 8 Ok 18 Yaxk’in

490 shopping days until 13.0.0.0.0 4 Ahau 3 K’ank’in.

Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor/Robert Tiso, Glass Harp

Lachesis

Half past love’s labor lost

on a melting watch’s

persistent memory,

half past the half life

of the lithium chorus

singing out the lauds and matins

like a bach fugue

played on water harmonica

and glockenspiel,

Lachesis measures out the bolt

laced like a suture

through the wounded heart—

a live wire—

thread of lightning

whipcracking the air

from the coil

to Tesla’s outstretched hand

as he allows his body

to be crucified by light

in this passion play

of Dr. Electric.

“therefore I will wail and howl,

I will go stripped and naked:

I will make a wailing

like the dragons,

and mourning as the owls”