in a time of snow
doves are labium pink
not grey or white
their feathers
are cocoons
split open
on rounded lips
that is kiss
you say
something I can
never learn
from mirrors
or with my own hands
i say
teach me to hop
on red legs
gather worms
with my mouth
digest pebbles
enough to ease out
yellow blood
tonight you reply
there's too much fog
wetness would drench
my wings flaccid
Prometheus
Rocking his chains to sleep,
he dreamt of fire again.
His mind picked up the torch
as if already drunk on heat.
It was his recurring desire
on this rock he'd hated
enough to call home. Behind
fevered eyes, he conspired
to burn Mount Olympus to ground.
Afterwards he would singe
the wings of his vultures and
roast them slowly on a spit.