There are four walls to this room
the same as everywhere, the same
as sleeping under flood lights of bated
breath, of cluckings hen-like gnaw from
pumping blood across blankness in pitied
words, said then falling in stomach chasm.
There are four feelings to this night,
the covered mask in silken finery confuses
a deeper knowing of futile movements,
that all could never matter the slightest
once It was miles replacing feet, once
it was rivers and lakes and swampland to step.
There are four pyres to make us warm
torching the woodpile in oil slick séance,
crackling dust on prarie winds down the
sea air and mountain snow in semblance,
holy ghosts drawing curtains on their impeccable
ends we have always reached out to.
There were four manners it could have ended,
the first two mere delusions of romance novels,
paintings careful in mass production animation cells,
the second set quills in hedgehog dilemna,
biting skin pierce to become close enough;
we chose the fourth, of solace turning bright.