a wash of pale surgence pulsing anew our thatching thawed a grey hazed bloom morning hid the hills neath a veil of a shade gone from my sill a paragon limp in cloth and I survived while the forest burned bark bleating dry, whispers from murk formless, fractured shade of skin crave breath, seek host of lucid kin dwell in gloam born in dusk of past days gleaning archaic name, a stillborn son mothers clinging to the headboard rendered loveless in new blood wake its harvest yearling no colts with broken legs no bleat from aback the shed no frost to clot the panes wake up.
