Letters, spit by storm clouds, fill puddles,
inhaled alphabet soup, garlicky red,
dimming Count Dracula’s Transylvanian charm
as graphemes drip from his fangs.
He turns his eyes toward Beethoven’s fifth,
it bloody well always grabs him by the throat,
catching his breath in the snow where
the untenable touch of a thousand tomorrows
echoes blood’s thunderous pulsing
as he walks into the light of day.
hoping immortality will one day be hers.
Once his ontogeny recapitulates its phylogeny,
she will chop off his head.
The dish runs away with the spoon,
splashing through red graphemes,
while Chuck shoots words
at morning’s fading moon.
Stepping in front of the Count,
her words ricochet back in
garlicky red puddles
dressing April in words.