Straining for a picture, I remember
your face — the winter I said
I’d never describe.

This lie remains
provokingly stable, vacant
not with space, but with pain.

And it’s ruthless that it comes as no surprise,
freezing news, ruin, you, or whoever
I confess to the dark.

Going back over
what was done, there
is almost not an interval.

Apples fall without astronomy,
thus I fall asleep
with a gun.

Thus a room’s
kissed away in radiance;
nothing’s left to be touched.

Books, porcelain, windows are open,
and heaven could be said
to be a wreck.

The clouds are here,
they aren’t up in the sky — that’s
your handwriting, that’s the way you write.

I told you I need something
to hold — here I am cold
with you, without.