When did when hang its winded brim? Finally. Quietly in ashless drought. Gasping stillness. Glossed white darkness. Begging let shoulders not stick to the shrug again. Mourning slickness. Momentary apocalypse. Bent hickory wet making every effort, crackling nipped. Snow banking below fences, submissive. The hopeful remnant dances en pointe mid-abyss, toes tapping empty pillows of breathless earth space. Sighs of condensation rush to meet flaked feet on the motionless stage. Yuletide. You’ll find me here-side when you leave him.