The sky is a block of body ice. The flashlights are violet, questing. The gnarled white trees are growing toward the indigo green. On a slate-dark sky, blackbirds. Wheeling crows. My gravesite is wheeling. Amnesia. Bony hands.
        Your calligraphy is within me, decipherable, just. The flues have encrypted the organics, have ruffled the ordering of the bonds beyond recovery. The loudspeaker is still lodged within my head, but it is white, now, merely, white noise, denatured, deracinated, and close, at last, to the perimeter of its passage.
        Let me smoke your milk. Let me roll it. Let me rise from your flutes, whey-faced and exhausted, to face the unadulterated rupture of the sea.