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I feel premature, being

awake barely before

the light and

feeling much farther

from the day.

I am deep winter,

a longest night.

With blown curtain

touch, I trace newly

made shadows which

furnish the furrows

of your face.

I feel I should be

drawing, trailing

drops of water on

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a smelt-smooth

summer sidewalk.

I lack a pen

of fool's shard

ice to fill

the hollows of your

brow with the calm

of a pregnant pond.

I wish to slip

down into that moving

mirror and stop descent

a brush below my eyes,

then rise, allow my nose

to hover bare above

water making breath

into waves—a discord

in the reflected sight

of sky above.

And I would love to go mad,

angry below the symbiotic

lure of air, to secede into

gilled sighs of fading light.

I feel you lying,

sleeping, a winter

hot bath to crawl

into, unnumbing

my hands, my sprawling

baby curled toes.

- Kat Isacson

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