Wind pulled from the deeping advent in a fitful wrest canters through it's oddyseys, over the moors wracked ink blue by rime,
Gold thread spools earthward from a lamprey sun, heavens gatherings their soft arsenals, cumulus in diaphanous veil,
Time chisels at the industrious hive, a chimera in your beard of pox and fermentations, hope trembles silent as the scree in it's whitening ghast, crashing it's shuffling tumblers into a staccato semblance,
Innumerable are these quickenings, strafed throughout their vertiginous spines, gathered in shelf before the comet tails of winter sing their witches into a sprawl,
All lying dorsal, these roads that pull us up from root to lintel, to the hubris of our houses anchored in the January stone