I find myself on the cusp of winter
In dark clothes, in a foreign town.
Homes are scattered, like seed torn
And I fly –
They say of a need to ground.
This insatiable creeping heat?
To want to know, to feel, discover?
They throw breath like pity’s piece
And say I fled
- I know I hover.
For cold lines are marked like framework
Metal, gravel – yet the sky
Occupies no time or distance
- The heart is warm, this meets your eyes.