your voice was always a

yawn, croak, a wart to the

holes in my starving

head.

my dull face, a silver sliver in

your stare is the seven-year-

strain for breath, break in the

glass plate surrounding--

Fresh bent limbs twitch

a grip at

nothing for something.

Your voice began to

stretch, caught cut cold

my bone and mush a

frozen spoil.