...against the pink sky the bones are still crackling
refusing to melt in the heat. The fire that lit up
anecdotes now folds winter in your eyes. Are you
the same that howled for Princess Vasilisa? Her
hair brush was a forest of fresh seasons. This mist
rises from your cold fur that you couldn't get rid of.
Don't wait for the moon. The threads of dry rivers
have used it to spin a forlorn valley where you
would catch her smell; that was a dew eons ago.
These tufts of grass that sleep at your legs are kingdoms
she surrendered for you. Your blood never heated again.
When the sky turns red, you might find an address: