Death Trap Bachelor pad

I lost you, Stella,

in icicles, overburdened,

you collapsed, hearing horns

in unheralded cold.

For you pointed North,

Pole-ward you pointed,

a five-sided arrow

of non-directional desire.

The furniture, damnit,

wants your blood;

you beat it off with a stick.

I won’t be here in the morning.

9/9/2013

Florence