Find those shut, blue light holes. Clipped for feeding, a ritual. How does this shirt look on me, on me. Nothing but more feast. When we look up, dead trees. How does your season work here, inside. The quiet possible. Smack my back up on it. You did it for me, for me. Bruise grew for weeks. In your absence I came for hours, ritual. Am I drinking enough water, you think me a bird. Something hollow, the pits. Nothing but a waxy build, framed again in gold. Something owned, returned broken. Bent the spine with his name. Dug it in real good.