We test the frozen edge,
and first is a slow,
bruising pain.
We seek to restrain.

We learn —
to sit,
to stand,
to walk.

We watch —
waiting for some new myth
to take hold —
one to believe.

Swallowing the dark night,
we wake shouting.
And it throbs
and trembles
as it recedes.

We beat wings
confining wire,
watching the sky
darken and reverse
through dusty windows.

sleeping —
nothing is as real.

About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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