the morning was threadbare,
loosed on a string.

we watched
the rising sinew; watched
the morning as it knotted and
coiled. the forest
trembled slightly.

she was named after the mountains—
her irises flashed white and howled;
her sleep rumbled with the earthiness
of winter; her mind wandered through
fields of

snow.

i wanted to wander
with her. i wanted to bury my head in the drifts
and sink into her core. i wanted
to stroke her gently:

kiss the
        falling

snow.

everything closes when the sun
goes down, i think.
i remembered you in fuzzy undertones:
the rays always seemed
to languish on your body/
the air always seemed to
sound so sweetly.

i felt the stirrings of  
spring, pressing close, withering
slowly.

burning, fiery red
stones add to the coal

imperfections crouch
in the flames: flickering,
lifeless

consuming, dispassionate red
from dirt to dusk and dawn

rooftop dandelions danced
in the sun as she pressed her body
to the soil.

she said it felt haunting, almost like
a lullaby, she said,
like her grandma’s
attic, she said: so many spiders.
they crawled on
her palms and bared their little fangs.
“haunt me”, she said.

i’ve been trying to
hold the wind; it rushes
past in dying gallops and inhalations
pulling the reigns on my mind up
and over—
rushing in the windows, rustling through
the cricket-fields, towing the clouds
like you
do.