I have a fetish for agonizing
over the unattainable.
The faces, the places–
is death really like a photograph?
 
In signal phrasing
I hate myself and I want to die
and
how I’m going to do it,
 
these eggs of melancholy
will finally hatch
beneath the ashen midwinter sky—
no brooders.
 
And in paraphrasing Fred Mertz,
those chickens are going to freeze
their fuzz off.