We Refused

amputation. Above the knee. You r so cold. Winter light moves up your neck to yr lips. For the duration of this song to u mother the cold light moves from yr lips to yr new permanently shut eyes. You can’t rave any more, slapping fury over the countdown of minutes, u can’t force yr quip in. The hills where the sun’s heading maintain their dead rest. No wind. No rain. The new wrong temps in- filtrate the too-dry grove, each stiffly curling silvery leaf—all up the slopes. All gleams momentarily. Each weed at the foot adds its quick rill of shimmering. Then off it goes. The in- candescent touches it, then off it goes. All afternoon day will do this. Touching, taking each thing up—no acceleration. Dry. Cold. Here mother is when it reaches yr eyes, the instant when it covers yr lids, curved to catch all brilliance, nothing

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