Something goes thinking The Yellow House
don’t want to think it’s me
but revenant snow gathers its mail
mint chainmail of whispers against windows
thousands of tomorrows we may
leave off finishing our sentences a bit
your face in a fridge, body elsewhere

body elation, I know what you
wildflowers into the night
editor reaches her edge
she has to drive away somewhere
a wraith we can appreciate
the swimming into disingenuous fish

their souls like nightlights behaved
behind these front lines