That there is snow falling.
A syzygy taps at the roof, like music.
. . . the broken walls, the damp
That there is a limit to voices without.
Signs dropping from the sky like baby spiders.
An incredible ache starts in the ankle
and ends in the eye.
. . . a distant
hunger or thirst.
Beneath the boot-heel a tyrant's vial.
The way the skaters pointed with their bodies.
That there is a safe place inside her nightmare,
an embryo adrift in starlight,
gazing at the canal.
The verb is in love with the noun.
The verb executes the noun.
Thin pages between the object and the cold air.
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