Shannon Hozinec



Split pupil. Iris wander. Howl mouth, sound round. 
Where does the well spit back what it cannot digest?
Greedy algae tickles, ripples false moon. Skulled
detritus needles through the polished eye. Black snakes          
curl on wet cobblestones, tiny ampersands of patience. 
Ribbon wound, and unwound. Healed to spool. To spiral. 
To spin time on its too-tilted axis like a defective planet. 
The cardboard dark makes its case, but a frightened animal
will always recognize its kind by the flint of their eyes,
while the light maddens all around them. Beacons,
beckoning. Snouts speckled with bonemeal snow
lower to drink. Upstream, a deer raises her head
from the water that's already drowned her.




Shame sweetens the blood
better than any fickle sin,

the way the best parables are always
the ones where the devil wins.

If death is a mercy, and sacrifice
defeat made holy, then love,

hand me the knife:
I will carve myself a saint.




Creation, and decreation.