by Ian Brook

    You touched the point, the instant
    Night devoured itself.  The gaping bright
    Hell beneath each street light seemed to indicate
    Snow had fallen
    Without much notice or resemblance.
    Our infamous & discontented winter.
    Body bags & garbage bins, candles
    & old accidents of conception.
    I was nine or maybe ten & you
    Were not but soon to be
    Arriving in the world - a pure gold
    Shriek whose living
    Force folds the heart inward.

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