where
on a cold field
snowing
i sit and lean
against a tree.
the flakes are arranged on
intersecting cubic
lattices,
each falling through the others,
white vertices sweeping across a
slate sky.
everything is grey,
or close.
i sit, leaning against the tree,
and unfold my chest,
open,
pull apart the cage of my ribs,
letting out my heat.
the snow-covered ground stains red,
the gentle spray of
blood
marks an arc in front of
me.
the heat rises to meet the
snow falling around me,
melting it,
creating a void before me
wherein no white vertex may pass.
here, my insides laid bare,
is where i feel
least vulnerable,
most comfortable,
and
alive.
it’s quiet.
the snow assumes nothing.
it just falls.
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