If
you are the billowing clouds from my lips, poured
drop by drop back up this slope before
breaking straight over my eyes, then I
am these panes of swollen black ice, and
I am their tenor
and vehicle left
in your hands and, yes, I
am the contract between them,
allow me to focus
all your attention through one tiny hole in the ice, look
with me up there and see
a same winter above us as
quiet as a bough before breaking
Is this you whispering or
am I just echoing still
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