echoed space reverberates from a bald mound:

a burial ground or a hill to ski the same

tender keepsakes murdered by raspy thrashing

their voices like magic, a burlap of voodoo

yet moths swill dawdle

raining down on the foxglove for a flicker of light

to alloy hope and irony like how flowers grow on graves

in adazzled spring days with winter just forgotten

the chest embraces spiky guilt but

must we ski where we spelunk?