I cried as the stars bore low, a listening ceiling of silver rips and pins. There was no moon and they pressed lower and lower still.

And all that could be heard was the ebb and flow of one creaking
breath, one and then another,
going, going;
I was surprised that they were mine.

I pushed myself forth and away from the horror of your love in that coffin of a room.
An epithelalium, a dirge and a hymnal came to me at dawn. It was a birth into a clean white winter.

There is a bright place on the frosted pane where my salt water has melted through;
Though I falter in my steps I know my legs will carry me far away.