Stains in the Hoarcrust Gone Dreaming


The water underneath all that sky felt like the silk remnant I used to line the sparrow's cedar box, a little larger than my palm I felt its deep purple when I closed my eyes. But then the cold of the air and there is no time for the theory of silence wherein I grow crystalline as if upon a vantage overlooking the valley, edges of vision oil slicked for I had not thought the heat of rough wool could be so much like earth. And yet we have hours, but what we are here is like something folding but really like nothing having to do with time. Instead there is talking and talking and then I slipped and my head hit, and then wrought in the leaves I became enough of your cruel words, for you can be so. But in that state the space pries away from the paper cranes lashed to bare branches, the silk flowers beveling in their boxes of snow and it was with this that I suppose that I saw. And so a new need for your wooden shanks slipped between our versions as the exhaust and the slur of cars register ice reminding us that we are outside and home's far away, tires spinning in a muddy rut before a wayward herd of goats.