call up in spring, maybe maybe maybe maybe, I've caught mine in the stream:
hollow things.
hollow, hollow, seeing and free directions, contortions cool down, riverbeds of flowers that sun made in dark spot phase turning to alive alive alive alive alive breathing cold warm cold, nothing
any more
ripples like the stilts feet fell through to carve square pegs in the holes in my skin and feign ignorance to let up sunspot light fading writhing keeping me alive alive alive alive alive all through this gold cursed night