There. There.
Between the window laminated
against the mesh.
Lean in
a kaleidoscope eyeball.
A reviving poke sirens.

You crumble like ash
in a flailing descent,
a black speck.
Nothing fidgets.
In spring there is a death;
in the buds when temperatures

drop, the air’s reaper now
with his hood off his smile
grim. The snow slushed
ice with a trail of hardened
footprints, a crooked line,
God biting the earth.