They say they dream of days to come with
Skies clouded as if with ash
Falling on the frozen dead and nearly so
Splashed with the color of blood at odd intervals
And smoothly glabrous pubescent branches
Hoping to kiss under parasites hanging detumescent
When their breaths will freeze

But who will not take up their pagan chants
Borrowed in season from offerings made to
The sickle-wielding one whose sickle found him
They will be the ones called overly libidinous
And they who do not rejoice at the forests growing
Even now
Earlier and earlier with each year
Though they stand not in Dunsinane
Hands stained with Duncan’s murder
But wish for broader joys
They will be the ones called hateful
Though the voices saying such are strained
Flowing through flushed faces and
Out of tightened throats

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