The metallic roar has turned into wind,
and the moisture is now a path of phlegm
which thickens in the throat, so parched and thinned
by the smoke-eaten drips that flood the brim:
The crisp felt hat that is dipped in the pond
to fend off the bears from the velvet flesh
is the greatest relief – a golden frond –
to a judged forehead, cased in spit and mesh:
We used fresh-picked spider silk to dress wounds,
self-inflicted gainst the pine cone's fine tooth
and the acorns' hard shells, letters and mounds
of boiled limbs bundled up as feigned truth:
We set aside and aflame every line
that chained our movement to the Alpine vine.
urbansonnets 