facet
cold and windblown like the scent of your hair.

saltpeter.

the honey, the bee.


(i think this facet thing is formal, in the formin'-est sense of the word; it's a little bit about that borges story where the mystic decides to dream a man into existence, but while borges' mystic dreams a progress starting with a flesh heart and moving on to other parts, eventually creating in a sense himself, i'm doing something else...and will end up with a man nothing like me. because frankenstein sure managed it. or maybe i'm just making up an excuse to write really short poems.)