I know places
where cities of the heart
create themselves into the hours
and addictions of a day.

I know outside each door
a precipice waits
holdings its breath,
humbling feet and hands
to the fragrance
of what is unspoken.

Winter sinks into an unmade bed
unfastening her dark highway of hair

The last apples shiver like stars
in a sea of skeletal trees.

“Come,” said the Reaper,
“My hands are cold
and the world is still.”