the wine in the house urges me to spill itself onto the snow

i'd like to decorate the lawn
with golden goblets;
i'll also water the snow
with blood of the grapes
with no extra payment.
it'll be a puckered purple
scar on the pale skin of winter.
perhaps all this will ease
my mind; tongue ripping
through salt-encrusted
rims. teeth. and sinew.
my fingers are trembling,
scratching my sister's
agony in the skirt of chaos.
my nails are wrecked and
bleeding-like wine-from
scraping the sidewalk
into my gauzy mouth.
frostbitten soil dribbles
between my palms
like stinging, cloudy sleet.
i toe at the waterlogged
moon drenched in wine.