Sweater weather is a sentiment best left for nesting dolls. Don’t get too cozy. It’s a cold thumb that weighs the scale, betrays the layman from saying he never loved his mother as much as he should. Stuff as many stockings as you need, Steve: you can’t eat proverbs. You can’t even eat poetry, can’t shuck its pips into a metal bowl, can’t stain your fingers pine red with it, no matter how cracked the skin, no matter how buried the kin, no matter no matter.

The layman becomes a nomad for a season, seeking wonder in wandering, but finds only a set of checked boxes and a discarded pair of boxers. And a Boxer named Frank with a heart of gold, which means he’s a dog who smells names on the wind. The only joy is something new. Alas, it’s too late: by the time you’ve recognized it, your eyes have crusted over. Your eyes have crusted over and you’re all fingerprints on a mirror now, all sleep, pressed against a cold winter wall, all dreams of alleyways groped in pitch black night.

Maybe this is all just hangover.


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