Im listens for the babble
of internal organs, hers –
hearts, hot intestines
and suchlike.
Her bones are the ice
sculptures of Erebus
*
The sun a ring
– tambourine and cornet
the salt snow bakes.
A crust
and a cauldron
cone and rotunda
belly of breath
Im skims off –
fat off milk
*
Im plays at witching
forges molten snow
into a cat-shape
a grotto, grove of folded
paper animals, Im speaks
with her fingers
to annihilate them
unfold
*
A fold is an irrevocably
straight line
where white sheep live,
Im thinks
*
Snow like sand. Im
luxuriating, eyes closed,
loses her toes in it
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