Tunnels.

The warm honey that you spin.

Like laying in a field from a Cather book
with the light on your back and your nose
buried in the wet, green death of the iron earth.
Tie roots 'round your wrists and convince me of comfort.
The crescendo of cicadas
almost hides your lies.
Does it sound like laughter? 

Tread softly:
you didn't bury it deep enough.

It prickles behind my ear,
runs along my shallow spine:
the ghost thresh of the golden grain;
the soft trail of a frantic ant.
The slow trickle of silent blood.

The warm honey that you spin,

I almost missed the sting.

I searched for the right words to express my feelings about going home.


glassy jet eyes and the stale
sting of permanence.
it stains these clothes and burns my eyes.
like a crisp, black feather;
tickles the back of my throat 
and i choke 
on this moratorium.

impassive, insipid, infinite;
little girl, it is time to take heed.
death watches
and smiles.

only blood can wipe out blood.