“Trunk”

i heard you in the thunder,
wolf, tree top, empty field.

we marked the bark with knives,
jagged lines turned to meaning:

you told me druids mixed salt
and blood, in places like this.

“Myself to Myself”

I sacrifice myself to myself
dedicate this falling blood,
filling wooden grooves,
to all I may or may not be.
Nine nights, moons, years,
any of these i’ll bleed
and burn for, if only
change will claim me
by the end of all things.

“Patrician”

delving sideways along a desk of maimed nature
through notes of crushed-stabbed papers scrawled
with arcane, ill-thought, ill-felt runic ramblings
damning some and soul-saving others
making exceptions without feeling-thinking
who goes ahead and who is left behind
to bleed-black on volcanic dead-rock.