Behind Two Hills, a Love Letter, a Swimming Pool

Dear Song Bird, to burn the winterlands back to the edge of the cornfield, she'll pull a thread from this red sweater. To unravel me, you need only a twitter, a tit, an it and an eye. Before the New Year delivers its newfangled sacraments and retrospective suburbs, tell me: Is the sky an empty womb or another wishing well in which we cast the sad repetition of our human desire? Oh cardinal of The Greater Tri-County Area, how long till my wounds dissolve a mouth? Tonight, I'm asking a blessing for this spermicide, a shelter from the Why? Through the winter of sweet cream and palsy, I'm faithfully listening for the ominous homonyms quarantined beneath your tongue.