The hound of Mielikki fell

with stone fruit embedded in his heart,

three cloudless winter nights ago.

I , the deranged demiurge at the gate,

keeper of amalgam worlds, weeps silently.

My tongue lays in a ravine,

when raining it floats like a gondola

silently towards the ocean, an indigent deposit,

for punishment of the lily-livered is to

be trapped under the weight of water.

My body dovetails with darkness

as I descend deep into dictatorial woods

to daven within batten blackness,

and Wolf footprints, bemired deep into snow

like sealing wax on a love letter.

Swirling a sweven softly lands

like a Smew in my unsuspected lap

singing a sorrowful song of the Sami

of two-dog nights and squall

of vanishing food and species.

A gapeseed lost in folds

with night-dark eyes that float and dart

out of window and aperture.

fingerprint smudges on a peripheral glassy dome

of cursory movements and soft fleeting glimpses.