A chilly thing comes over me,
Rolls in like a dense, white fog
As articulate and elusive as a spider's web,
A contraption to transition from one state
       to another
Of my creation.
My little mind fairies pull a blanket to
      my back
And pat it in place -
There, there,
This bleakness of mind is but a transitory season.
This, I know.

My eyelids drop in dejection,
The horizon seems to retreat out of sight -
It, too, needs a rest, is tired of failing
Against the pervasive cold -
It tries,
It fears failure,
And fails sometimes.

I begin to leak liquid from within,
It souses my clothes, filling my shoes,
My posture gives from the familiar weight,
It runs into cloud-shaped puddles
      in wanting likeness
      of their weightlessness
      and place in the sky.

within my retina, a woman
   sits cursive, writing in the flesh,
  words i could no longer parry.

preening through the brightness,
   its extensive turn, spanking the curve
  of the elbow room decrees

   - we are
         to each other
   and away
      we go
         arriving at unknown places -

  yet her
     multiple gestures array.

  woman
your full fathom's depth
      souses the traceless flame;
  trapeze from
      hate to
          love formless, crossing
paths limbless caught in the spar
     of enjambments

    our then aberration of lips
   sutures something bleeding
      profusely; this morning
   holds a torch passed on to
      your body's shade tossed
  out of nascent states:

     we are young
   yet never younger, chasing
    in circles enclosed in dome-hands.