The page opens to snow on a field: boot-holed month, black hour
the bottle in your coat half voda half winter light.
To what and to whom does one say yes?
If God were the uncertain, would you cling to him?
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The soul behind you no longer inhabits your life: the unlit house with its breathless windows and a chimney of ruined wings where wind becomes an aria, your name, voices from a field, And you, smoke, dissonance, a psalm, a stairwell. Deep