to the ghost of winter:
relics are their own poetry, they haunt the fingertips of strangers.
you weave yourself like stagnant rain, irascible and tarnished, edges of these diamond-pools scuttling away like grasshoppers; fragility is never so bad, you said, and I knew then that we could never build castles from the shattered glass of your hands (they did not cup my oceans yesterday, when I cried skyscrapers.)
time sings of ephemerality, like all anarchists do.
we are dying with uncensored eyes (transparency has shed all its meaning).
weeping, at the graveyard: autumn, all I have of you are bare branches (for, my sweet, you were marked only by spirited absence). we've grown tired now, in our unbuilt coffins.