Sunday, January 30, 2011


we scale the walls of treachery
pull the teeth from winter's yaw
with delicate fingers
deft hands
grimy, gutting glances
a bloodletting
consummated with
soiled paper sheets, you

milking shadows from the breasts of naked trees
closer to me than words on a page
these fragile things, like sleep
or paper thin prayers
illuminate you in fiery glass shards
for we are splintered
and sharp
for cutting

--Ag Synclair's work has appeared in numerous literary publications, chapbooks, anthologies, and 'zines, both online and in print. He drinks too much coffee, suffers from long bouts of writers block, and sometimes wishes poetry would just go away. He lives, writes, and is occasionally employed in Southwestern Montana.

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