there is no stone sewn
   gossamer but your heart;

holds captive, the leaves
   trapped in white teeth of snow,
  gnawed at, abandoning the boughs

   quivering, never still.

  this immovable fire heeds no void
    standing in between us,

how you die in me:

all things twice over,
told, hushed in the senseless
  brush of wind,
  petrified like the tree
heeding no autumn's till,
a feeling
  flailing inward,
  climbing out of yourself.