“Maybe Magic”
Maybe on the death of each horizon
when birds hatch prematurely
and the hens of our throbbing hearts
cast prophecies
spores on our witch thighs,
Bengal tigers in our witch breath,
we travel on a cold magician,
in spite and anger, spiral on spire,
a spell renewed cast aside,
a chocolate trunk,
crying in the darkness, a rug now made
of once our lies and as we lie
animals and instead of magic on a beach
on a wounded slipper night
when seashells hurt inside you
and we kissed to frostbite
a dawn erased
no one will find our fossils
if we swing through the trees
fast enough to outrun our shadows.
nicholauspatnaude 
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