Fern frost spreads
intricate leaves
on our window.

I pass into sleep
through a tunnel of voices,
step on collapsing snow,

slide out of my body
into dark water.
When dead trees fall

they lie down easily,
through with being
emptied, done with all

but the final breakage,
their branches slicked
by ice. You dream

beside me, your moustache
brushing my ear, then
wake me to see snow

slipping to sleet, light
cutting holes in the sky.
Waxwings flutter and

keen outside the window
in thin, high voices.
My wooden heart stops

complaining. Our bed
smells like cinnamon,
woodruff, rose.