doe-eyed

strange spring, wet wind:
it is here so much as air,
grasses walking with split spines,
christmas arcs on meadowlines
that never cross but scoop and gnash;
catgut floss, your ouroboros
;
can you lick your wounds again?
your enemies are dead —
a ruby spittle sleeps and ere
a whistle in the lung's as morning's mists,
some splats of fawns and rust,
mountains of mountain men,
and twee in the abandon
;
glass socket eyes etched with stars
all blink out, eventually,
as memories, as sweat-peeled skin,
as velvet torn off while you dream