Wintry berries

dead at the tips

of snow-sagged branches

red as blood-inked lips.


Wintry oceans

tucked into bed

with the earth beneath it,

people on its head.


Wintry mountains

with caves of bone;

littered leather;

scarred, gnawed stones.


Wintry people

smite snow-grey cheeks.

No blush no flush--

the world’s too dead to eat.


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