Over, Over

Nose runs
toward foggy outlines,
an idiot spigot
lecturing my heart
over how to leak,
how to speak
from the part
twice removed.

Smell, the lightning sense
crisping thought
of warm-blooded
heap. Repentance
of unwelcome
friction.

Tiny oracles
fasten a wreath
out of discarded
pine. It hangs
off-kilter, better
still than anything.
Prickly as our winter.