my eyelashes froze on the forest's edge;ni don't recall the order of eventsnadrift in furrowed streaks, the snow had leftnto crop the fire in framing through my handsnnand if i were alone there would be nothing on the wallsnthere never was a response,ni picture them in a van reading aloud,nhanging words and wheeling them hushednacross the spaces above our headsnso each deviation extends past a cartonnor through serviette racksnnbottle miserynwhere trucks are distant bells in fognthe love conspiracy in wooded veil each endless walknn'The swing's one push away from flight.'nIt's easy to kill flies in an all white room,nat least until you go blindnand strip the skin from your palmsnto blot every streak and miragenand pretend that you're lost in thought so cars will turnntwo rain path air back coversnfingertip staring plus nine precursor pm searchropenexpecting that from those cels, the rubbings will brush asidento descale a saturated lost claritynwith three or four rows of teethnnit's a mysterynthe second cloth diffusing pausenthe love conspiracy sealing every finger offn(there's enough anthemic pandemic poisoning wells for that)nnmy eyelashes froze on the forest's edge;ni don't recall the order of eventsnadrift in furrowed streaks, the snow had leftnto crop the fire in framing through my hands