Through winter's pale and heart's formation held the glass-eye prism, which split the light like morning dew, handless icicles, blood withdrew.
July 2015, started on a toilet, wound up on a dream journal
yes or no to 2nd stanza?
This would be done were it not just age, just gravity's mercy or a songbird's call, a repetitious call from lungs so small, an echo that hangs on a cloudlet's lips.