hone her tune

the sky falls slow in slivers and shards; to us, it’s all silver. we walk through the yards of the blueblooded bored, and each candlelit window’s a faithought restored. in thermal profile we see each other’s faces, a sheath of warmth around us given shape by snowflakes’ traces as they dance on breath and barely breeze by skin. we agree that elfin means not elven, and wonder whether barters bend as soon as they begin.

we find ourselves walking on ice, and choose steps as we would words–with care. she smilesays look, we’re our totems: you’re cat-crouched, i’m winging for air. we go balance to ballet to none-ever-know, noticing needing to learn letting go.

and then when you’re standing, i say, empty-handed, your fingers find forms as desi(re|gn)’s demanded.

later, the Houghynnmen sing us a church, and the sirens in the middle sway gently as birch. when they come again, we say, we’ll bring them something warm. we walk home so slowly we don’t feel the storm.

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