Snow moving in orbits, the wolf-call of the wind: time to
Put on my boots and head out,

To make small, blunt tracks and little hand-angels,
Oh no, that feels like fire

The fire that began above my feet and spreads and spreads,
It’s hard to remember,

Yes, I want to go home, that’s what I wanted to—

The air is a memory of being born, before I came to Neptune
Is she this way, or that way

Down this path and by the hole below the window where a gust of
Warm blows

I will lie down

This time I want to talk to someone, I don’t feel shy
I would say that what attacks you is invisible, and does not stop:

I would direct you to my mother who is more sad than mad as I lie
Down on a gush of her hot tears and exhale, at last, a sun-beam.

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