here, in forgettable lands,
you drew pictures on the tiles.
chalks, paints; flower girls
and wolf teeth, blue skies
and starlight – those,
those I remember.



the titles reached up high,
the mountains of fantasy
dominating the upper reaches
in long stretches of hard-to-say
names and strange england-like
lands, then came the crime
in black-and-white city streets
and men with eyes too haggard,
then bright-souled coming of age
novels, asking for optimism and love.

at the bottom sat the poems
tucked into notebooks.

“they say”

they say

the sky is his skull
the land his bones
and the ocean his blood.

we stand by Ymir, giant-father
unwilling world-vessel sacrificed
by three fates with purpose poised
to create this new, bright, corpse-world.

they say

he won the stones through pain
impaled, bleeding, hanging high
from the tree that bore the worlds.

after an age, he emerged fresh-faced,
the All-father, embraced by the magic
that built a thousand worlds from death
scattered about his feet: written words.

they say

the wolf will break his fetters
bursting upon the world after a year
of long, barbarous winter.

Odin will fall to Fenrir,
Thor will die defeating the world-serpent
and the surviving Gods will gather
amidst the dead world and wonder.