Come, hear us now sing you songs  of truth (and woe)  ‘cross the seventh divide,  the salves and stirrers  of blood  and breasts  that ride the flaming cold  of void  and harpies’ breath, wrapping icy tongues ‘round gnarl and knot  of stiff, blackened fingertips. Take hold of hands (and ponderances upon lips) thorny in their grip  and snap the bones (How the warmth of flesh  brings longing  for days of Summer— a sweet ache) and … Continue reading Bitter Fruit From Suicide Trees* by David Estringel