You paper the sun ̶ with both hands
bury the ashes though the time hasn't come
for shadows ̶ what you darken
sooner or later becomes your fingertips
still warm, wanting to spread
as winters, be harvested
from a sky already half stone
half so often covered with snow
̶ you cling to a grave
that has no grass yet
is setting out and for a while
across the ground and the others.
Though when you wash
the roof no longer leaks
̶ a missing stream
lets you rest alongside a sink
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