The scene is set for secret stunts
Powdered proofs in powerful print
Prove it

Plans produce promises of lilies
Plans stately plain
Did we stand and state deranged

February fabricated my fingerprints
The snowflakes of my palm
The words of my blood

My eye in the blizzard
Asks, seeks, and knocks
No, we know that is not for us

February, the stocks of sloth
Softly syndicated in sensuous solemnity
For weeks

Pearls of ice crunch beneath my boots
Through the narrow gates of snow
To the streetlight moon

Forced to fast from our own name
To eat at another’s

Unhatched eggs smashed in their basket
Weeds grow where wheat was sowed
Milk tinged with tears

Delirious decline, denial redialed
Devoted deciduous defeated
Dog of the sacred


Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column 7x appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.