Lillian-Yvonne Bertram

with a candle
for a head

Wanting to be fit

with something festive.

A high pulse.

To talk all the wrong talk

I had a mouth the way a human has a mouth.

But I was a dune of coal.

The street yawned its long sheath peeled open like a wire in the night.

I went down to the cornerful of black mist,

the station of a fragment human.

It began there in leather cuffs of light.

Fuse: my barking color.

I thought I did not exist. Or I was a team of people.

I wanted expert protection.

I wanted something crazier. A high skying flyover.

Some William Tell.

Winner of the 2011 Winter Anthology Contest