Everything is a meer spunge,
my business: interval, common
little patch
with the romantic name.
Hast thou entered into the treasures
of the snow, the treasures of the hail?
You start talking
like that, I might
ease you in.
Like almonds whose milk blurs
the smashed polygons of a glittering hide.
You ain’t by yourself
neither.
It is the glory of God
to conceal a thing.
I like to peel it off
in long strips.
A prime example of penitential food.
I wouldn’t even care I’d
do her and all seven of her personalities.
It has stricken me
—a Snow White phase—
and I was not sick.
They have beaten me
and I did not feel it.
They have closed the gate
to gods and fakers.