A cold fugue
balances a shiny taste
of the new, on my war
with the old;
the should takes over
where there is no want,
& I have faltered again
& again
in silence
on warm stones
to picking the ground
with a battered stick,
the ant moves relentless
and swift,
finding no breadth of space too big
it diminishes
in the noon light.
there was a space of time
to stay warm,
and with this
A cold fugue
makes war,
the softest parts of me
bleed to end
the fragile figure
of life beneath
the wind-
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