the shadow on the snow, laden with glances.
make the nectar of the gods from liquid that won’t run.
the magpies hop through the veranda door, eat the candle wax, steal everything.
rain or snow, somewhere in the kidneys.
longing comes carrying a shovel for its burial.
thought is sacred.
whether one must be poor to be rich.
in other words, feelings can get up, come in!