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Kyle McCord

Sonnet Mesmerized by Blood on Snow



After the dungeon master slays you on the snows of Mount Sorrow

            it’s time to go home and love someone.  Rain stamping welts of water


under the porch slats, giving off the smell of worms and the bus which reminds

            of the soil the driver washes out the back with a hose.  Your blood,


meanwhile, spreads in slow, sure circles on the mountain where the tracks

            of your friends descending the mountain cross down


toward the lake of cracked glass. The sounds of terns drop

            onto willow’s limbs like stupid vows.  Walking home,


you don’t know the word you’re searching for is contrition.  On the peak

    of Mount Sorrow there is no thaw and no contrition, but this had been plain to you


when you signed on to work miracles.  You knew the forest from the trees, for its spill

    of floral refuse.  You embraced your sister over a fatality


which was primarily of innocence.  The clouds, the grey colossi outside

    you could penetrate to the heart with anything.


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