Inspecting obscured and outside things –
stars, delicate twinklings almost graspable
bombs raging from undead lightyears
felt with feet embedded in frozen ground –
my hidden bones wrapped in dying flesh:
small gift simply given.
Head from pylons descends to frost, and then to it:
shadow. Floodlit shadow. Long, full, living.
Small my feeble legs, cold my whitened hands,
pale me. This thing can I have cast,
so long and full, so worthy of the light,
so emptying of jewel-encrusted night?