for you it is all
cold dead, cut
off

so far
away, so far as
you want
to  be li(e)ving

But no, not so
far as not to tell me
in breath...

perhaps because
I was not present
it will (in) al(l)ways
live

Rolling roilling
boiled Red.
Aliv(f)e

A life of yours
I cannot protect,
pure but submerged
in close death.

Thus I cry
for ever-weeping wound
your name carved.

The inside is clean
But not cold or
finished;

she breathes.