These seasons become a place,
different light shadows, water stains,
a far-away singing, a moaning siren
whose sadness reveal near edge.
Slowly thick molasses, blood drips
on untouched snow. A wind whose
tiny hands flash quickly like a world
reveals fragility of distance-
here from there.
Product of imagination, imprisoned;
truth astonishingly clear. Now pray
this shiny, broken face, this sense
of body splitting spares you from