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88 Wintering I sleep alone as a pocket of air swallows my skin, rolls me between body and sheets. I am far from you, floating, a stone in a scream of space while the sun our heart plods on mostly unnoticed. When it fails there’ll be no way to keep the heat, we’ll freeze to nullity, our skeletons runes scattered in the shapes we once made. Forms open to forms, rot’s an old growing we inherit in the riddling. Rattle in the radiator—death?— or some presence we have not yet imagined? I can’t imagine where you’ll go when you’ve gone over the folds, the old stories say, to the people of the stars, the sun— ...

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