Shovel Prayer

I sing a sacrament to winter,
That canine, clamping its cold upon
Earth’s innocent flesh.
Seal my offering with blood squeezed
From cracking skin of my hands
Which, for all of their complaining
Have built nothing.
These movers of snow
Will be forgotten in spring
My prayer on the wind dissipating,
Consecrating a ground haunted by no gods or ghosts.
This is an elegy to that ice cream emperor, ozymandius
An ode to impotence himself,
To my cooling labored muscles which have spitted themselves
Over the cold flame of your fang
To fulfill you, slake your lust how I may,
Roil in your belly like a chuckle of wood
On a stove eating warmth
Returning back great nothing but ache and age.