ii.

the view from in here:

the curves, colors, corners—

 

forming the anchorage of

you. the angled wood running

 

down hallways, dreaming of

being trees in a time before

 

scarcity. she didn’t want to grow,

to move, to change; she knew:

 

something is wrong. she crept into

the wall and fashioned herself in-

 

to a knot: good for the slaying.

from beyond she is still saying:

 

throw me a line. it continues

to feed our gibbous infamy.

hallowed

winter is a

sly fox

 

running over

masks of

ice fields

 

summoning

rough-spirit

winds and

bandwidths

 

chlorophyll cooling

within moon

struck sticks

 

and far below the

countervailing

gravity

 

a hairless human

 

ice fishing for

obsolescence

 

in argillaceous

spaces