christina

alone, i am not

of an easel like the

gibbons of mandevilla

i need not three legs

to stand.

this flightless heart flees

farther than that of those

spineless silver falcons.

winter craves upon those

rose hearts who become

so frail a branch in the silhouette

of a stopgap intimate.

they wither blue

beneath a deathless shade

ripped narrow in the game

of limbic double dutch.

a careless casualty

in the name of some

greying prayer.