She only thinks of herself,
filling the cold cracks in her mirthless faith
with mute summer-stock and square aesthetics.
Dramatic gestures, perpetrated behind elegant frames,
separate her external seasons from internal weathers;
hunger becomes an earthquake in her hollow, dank spaces.
Intestinal combustions will heat Siberian salt to reflection.
It’s a meme for the right of passage—youth to adulthood.
This is distraction or a cilia reunion of rest in her winter belly’s fast.
K. Shawn Edgar | Tinkerer of Assumptions | Ebb Tide Detective | Mote Chaser