TONIGHT, OR ANY OTHER NIGHT


 
Who knew there were so many
headless torsos, so many bodiless cocks
hunting the aching bleakness of the internet
looking for sex

The pagan Nordics of pale suns,
before they invented runes, used leaves
off trees, each tree a letter spelling out riddles
and supplications.

Thread them in order on bear sinew
or fine hempen cord, Birch, Ash, Odin’s Oak
Yggdrasil taking the weight of nine worlds
that Odin hanged from

for nine days and nine nights, spear-pierced
in his side, revealing himself to himself
to learn the runes from the dead,
letters that throb

and tremble. I think I prefer the leaves
watching alphabets turn gold, russet, vermillion
on the trees, illuminating the cold grey stones
in autumn,

letters that rot into the earth under the snow,
not spelling out furtive banalities on a screen,
begging or boring on a cold winter night

with nothing to say.

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