ied

i can still taste the old snow on my tongue .

the quiet fire of a missile , the bitter of the rum .

i can still feel the plucking of an Archangel’s wings

out the crack of my spine ,

silence surrounding an unabiding wine .

there is a certain cynosure i am not yet sure of , and

i find myself screaming out of my lack of composure —

i can still taste the way your hand carried mine ,

a dewy caramel rum , while you set up your land mines

let it be said that :

it blows to be in love , but the pleasure’s all mine