liar's art
1. Our Bones
2.  This Season

Chaotic soil will yield all death to birth,
its wild driven up as grass and dreams.
The frogs will, waking, rise alone, perverse
as saviors in the icy church of streams.
What urge will not be rearranged? What day
won’t burst its prophet self across my chest?
The sun, when come again, will have its say,
for spring is life sent flying from the nest.
But now, the winter’s boldest winds begin.
The empty world is huge and dark and drowned
with cold, and not even years of stars can win
the sky when gods have gone beneath the ground.
This season’s tethered to a post of regret,
but a victory will frame all that counting has let.
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