The summer feels

like winter

now that my bones

no longer trust

the flesh that hangs

like silver moss

from ancient cedar branches

deep in some snowy forest.

I am not reflecting old

but my core is hollow

for the cold

has crystallized

all flow.

I consider moving

to some ancient city

where heat

mummifies thought;

where all poetry

is blind

to what is real.

But the edges

of the knives

that pin me

here

are blunted

& can no long cut

deep enough

to free my words.