anything will become
of your dirt-scored hands or
your wax ash laugh,
even when it’s softened by the night air.
I don’t know if anything
will become of your crooked
your smoke wisp hair curling at the
nape of your neck like the last breath
before the edge of the waterfall,
or your crackling driftwood eyes.
And while I’m partial to the silhouette
you make stood against the light
I don’t know if anything will become
Because I don’t know if my bones
have too much cold in them
not to cover the
soil in your voice with frost.