Evening is a gaping wound,
the part of the day desperate to be filled
after so much fluff and circumstance
has passed through like ghosts
along skin into veins like red like peach…
January is on its knees
waiting to be taken in any hole
left underdeveloped, untaught,
fresh-faced and ready to dream
as soon as night completes the circle.
Winter nights are a slowing of blood
through minutes and moonlight
carried over icy hills,
pulsing to some remembered song
just before inevitable release.
The Word Rummager 
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