Dina-sour

Summits crinkle in the twilit year

If I hadn’t shunned every mirror until this last hour of countless spots and flies of fire

blinding me

How do I wrinkle, in the silent snap of scattered patterns - where my voice is just a fleck of dirt

Fudged swirls and lost traces of smell

– a picture lying dead in my wallet –

Memories covering each other like guilty orphans

The immense rumbling of his little steps beyond my own instinct – breaking that last boundary –

Where a pictogram plunges in that last vision of me – Trans

Lucent

Parent

Formed

Where Death sits, like the ever knocking figure in my dreams

Wrinkle, Crinkle and Snap

I’m a wood about to burn in extinction

Bunched in wicked thoughts - Conversed in the last skin of the Serpent