Lewis Keseberg

imprisoned by snow

he is a victim

of the hungry mountains.

prayers, punctured by pines

fall back to sender.

smoke stopped in a bottle.

a howling stomach

moans–

take communion

misses donner, come closer

i'd like to warm your hands.

your hands, misses donner

your hands

a pair of sleeping pigeons

crushed by clenched teeth

swallowing fingernails and feathers 

savage hands, beat the earth

more steadily than heart.

VII Amendment

my name is a vessel

and you fill it

i empty

my sore locket

a letter finds a fulcrum

held by a counsel

of lassoed voice.

awaiting my mark

my fingers crinkle like paper

tucked in my pocket.

i hear all souls must pass

through god's needle

before they reach heaven

lucky me

i have a handful of eyes

for my thread to catch.