"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven." Ecclesiastes 3:1
What mess you make! My harbinger, my sea of sherbet aches!
Not once did you soften your blow, when I too bent beneath
the bludgeon of decadence, instead you oft chose to remix it—
some days, a spear bedazzled with snowflakes, or a pillow
keening in falsetto, salt and pepper shakers knitted together
or the beak of a bleeding sparrow. As I mottle through muck,
verdance bears its shamrock teeth. When I dress in shades
of husk, lust thrusts merlot between my teeth. Why must all
the amber tangos end with I as feast? Shall grief always be
so striking? The brunt surrender to waves of lavender whilst
the willows arch plumb in their praise—locusts hum the end
times in hints of lime, and even these bells weep champagne!
Kin taught this to them. The first, my God, tearing his skin till
of raw he reaped make, till blood burned to lakes. And I bear
witness to all the seasons I know and those I have yet to name.
2026