The gods are rabbits in burrows, sleeping
below the crunching feet on snow. The worst
time to conjure a spirit is during
the tree-dead months, when Boreas’ Curse
lays on the land. October is laughter
for fun; there’s still tree sap. But for the us,
because all the earth sleeps good, the wonder
comes that we roused something in this coldness.
Your jeans pulled down … call this a … revival.
Fingers curled in a C, stroking shocked fur.
Your mouth opens … spiritual agonies …
or ecstasies … they’re the same when knuckle
deep. Let the gods slumber through dead winter.
All I ask: “if you want to cum say please.”