The road that leads into the forest
may not be the one that leads you out.
The hand knows the will of the heart,
yet is unwilling to make the move.
Show me your greyhound-like strut, the graceful dip
of the knife into the skin.
At last, the tulips are in bloom
on Quinpool!
The sweet drip of your seduction is more intoxicating
and deadly than your anger.
Have you not always had such small hands?
A starling's hop on the lawn,
a blackbird's lost feather,
the way the finch crushes whatever comes across its beak --
that is, into nothingness --
you've got the attributes of a cold case romance.
