talked about thinking, and played Blood and Roses
until the mirrors of our idealism flared. I afforded myself
a few lapses into the childhood of my language,
trying to remedy current events with a warm glow of nostalgia.
Here in this den where I feel comfortable and vulnerable,
my velveteen ears tucked beneath paws and feet,
even my failures are only small failures.
Outside, the snow sugared the landscape and I was at once
every wintered version of myself, doubled in the polished chrome
of my ice-sugared innocence where that greater thing lives,
curled like a molten promise at the core of all our seed-like planets,
hung in the great evergreen boughs of the human universe
where we can reflect the lights we can manage to catch.
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