One by one my lives all

came to an end, each phase

was torn from the canvas.

I was left like a sterile tank

creaking faintly in an empty room.

I looked for the mountains of snow,

for the lots made magic by bicycle tires,

for galleries written in steam

and dried by sunlight.

The moments of mercy and grace

were all used up, I was hung

like a smoking fuse

from flickering rafters.

Now this world is frozen shit,

but it still blooms.

It is stricken with isolation,

yet it flows throughout.

Yearning is the only doubt.