I’d like to sing a new song, but all my carols / sort of sound the same: same names, same awe, / same snow in places where it doesn’t snow / often. My gods all follow the same laws...
to hold home for kindred lovers / massage intimate memories with laughter, / weep and sway to the tremble of spirits’ feet / beating the ground in circles ’round here...
She was a mean love that way; she loved a latched gate, and a dead landlord beneath the steps, and all things of heaven made cold to touch and safe to house...
