my doors rot soft with lichen
peeling and tender
until it is simpler to reach straight
through the sugared wood and lift the latch
than to turn the handle.
time to change the locks.
we bob for apples and you rise up
dripping from the bucket
with my heart clenched between your teeth.
shove the prongs into the fireplace
and hear the stone chimney cry.
a cattle prod
my grandmother's jeweled pin
the stone cliffs crumble into chalk
as the audience applauds.
antarctica shatters
we seem to have lost
the gentle inside the fragile.
the tender hearted, brittle as ice,
cracking,
snapping,
frosted like velvet.
