the spark metal

scrape of a

woken windmill

and i, the rotten

remnant of

warmer days,

wave in the

breath of

slow blades.

wax waif, falling

frozen as winter

wins, forgotten

abloom, yellow i

lay at your feet.

soil someday, to

pot and prune.

bury me.

i will bring you

breath.

to hurt

this is the surface

where i lay my yarn,

is my workstation

woe, wonder i

limp out over sea burnt

wood, barren splintered before

sleep, before light dies after

night swells and the smoke

from a snuffed dream

is the stuff that

stings you awake.

yet you do not

stir. powdered, dressed

to our memory you

wilt and we slump and you

lay.