This weather has nothing to do with a coat hanger.
This snow is not the possibility of a strapless gown.
When I redeemed my blood from the blind owl I felt an irritable solution.
An ordinary disturbance supplicated sorcerer’s hair as if the nails of the dead
continued to know.
It was my ultimate discipline to astonish even my practice.
I had forgotten my nerve ganglia, as if I’d stopped at the corner store and
brought home only the milk.
I closed off my ears, heard circles of strong sweet sweat.
Flex my flesh as if my brain was red-gold with OM.
A flourish of snuffling hounds knows fingers and toes and the scent of
This weather could not, would not, reveal anything resembling skin.
It had nothing to do with ordinary purpose or even with a severe sexual strut.
It rose and fell, came and went, as weathers often do.