At the end of the year
trees, stripped, rattle
My breath, when it comes,
rattles
Bones can splinter
Out in the wild,
eyes slits in the wind,
I walk thick
ropy tree roots
over cold rivers
The white sun
floods stone forests
I eat handfuls of red berries,
burst veins and slurp
old blood
Still I am asleep to God
Nights
the moon is no mother
The stars shrink back
I fear sleep more than death
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