1001 nights
quiet now, play me the scheherezade while we register our hands as weapons and boil salt water to keep warm
we will make our way through winter winding yarn around murderous hands waltzing a jagged two-step, out of time
we will dream of bones and wild wood calloused hands unraveling the string of the cat’s cradle resting on our knuckles
we will run away in spring salt flats reflected in eyes hands cutting through seasons; all the while that song following us, reaching with fingers of crooked bones
nosebleed xxi: v. storm












