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