The light here is ambiguous.
I’m thinking about grey's
many facets. The light. The hum
and crackle of things shutting down under snow.
The low-hanging sky with its smell of knives and water.
I remember you although you haven't happened yet.
Your mythological skin is evasive
and grey.
I'm dreaming about lying in a heavy crystal cocoon.
Then there's you, arriving quietly.
