At the airport, saying goodbye,
had a sense, finally,
I was at home

between us, the plot of land ever moved
to ice by our in-turning hands---
gestures approaching snow:

there, as if firstly, felt my fingers on her
red hair, not as fire, but as color,
deprived of its object.

What she was and is now
to me is as the arson and his charred
no different in color.

There fell a feeling on or in your skin,
a coldness akin to immersion--- you swam
yourself out of the damp, the residue
of a paint as blood as clotted red.

These tragicomedians of the world’s end,
will they not remain laughing when dead,
or else pulled through the black hole
would they not remain cosmic dust, laughing?

There fell a sense of something unwelcome,
its notion not of a strangeness, but a bonedepth
eclipsed by itself: doorways within the home
which open to night in the house’s shape.

Her red hair you leave as thread,
through the blizzard, behind you,
you use to tread back to yourself:
the blood soaked snow inside you.

He cannot tell the shard apart that he touches
from the eye of the carrion; proverb of glass: that he
who manufactures it shares his burning body,
its smoke, exposure of an interior.