a groveling whelp amidst charred bits of bedroom and broken glass chanting his opus and conjuring blots of murk and ectoplasm disrobed and shaking grasping at trails of smoke with battered hands of copper of lead of cold sea brine of days wrapped up in tooth root twine vestiges lined with rot near to you begotten one wander from me fawn who is wanting shed your winter hide and take what you will snag your hooves on wire fences bleat until dry rest beside daughters of lost men and leave in the night paw at murk until form gathers bury it lone dreams of breath heaving and stagnant echoes through an empty room pry my palms from the ashen well and take what you will