Annual Awards
The Shadow Beneath My Corpse Is Always
In training He loves pretending he is
A layer of skin Peeled from Death's moon burnt
Shoulders Tonight he is resting under
Me As I write these words
As I lie here on this bank
I tell him Beware I am
Breeding a Herd of Fireflies I am
Weaving a net to skim the starlight
Off the surface of any river
His silence becomes a species of laughter
He thinks the only noise here is
The scraping of my pencil He does not know
That I am sharpening the tip of each syllable
To impale him Him & his little brother Fear
