by Justin Runge

Drunk before Christmas, you turn into a debutante and dance under light snow. O little holiday.

Dull ax. The timber is more bludgeoned than anything. Our flue lacks carcinogens. Some splinters ignite though, and quickly, when mounded like meager forage. Like the mouse-scavenged.

Gusts flutter our shingles, peel back to the cuticle our clapboard.

Your wool sleeve clears the frosted window, forms a porthole from the verglas. Joined at the pane to catch any nocturnal flight, the cabin has us, its two chattering skeletons.

Spy a hillock stump. A glen of grama where bare wind-breaks chatter at the periphery.

A motet of weeping. The firn allows the sound to rush for miles to our door. You call it sacred. The field or moans.

I grip my package parting and pull. A ball-peen, nails of various gauges. Thank you.

Now yours. Tear the wrap. From the shape, an obvious sled, and you’ve just one hill. So your mind is made.

Currently, Justin Runge is a student at the University of Alabama, where he serves as design editor for Black Warrior Review and editor of Blue Hour Press. His poems have appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, DIAGRAM, and elsewhere.

Back to Issue Two: Winter 2009