the vise on


Snow falls from a laden leaden
sky in oracular fashion. A foot of it.
Feet swollen and carbuncular.
Feet waxen and frozen solid.
The vise on an unfeeling brain
loosening its grip.
Darkness sets in.

“I am filled with snow.
There’s nothing to do now
but wait.”

— Jill Osier / “Snow Becoming Light by Morning”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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