The Habit Of Winter

This house or another can serve as a container but for what ghost?

If you are alone may also be a kind of prayer simply.

How much can one poem contain and is it now or ever was it a question of size?

It is not to inquire about being lost that will give offense but rather the fold of certain birds' wings that undermines a mostly pending immortality.

If one is looking to justify narrative there is no way better than to say how else is one supposed to capture and retain a reader.

Another possibility is the mail when it arrives is independent of even that much semblance.

What is it about time and ideas of embrasure that make anyone long for at least a slow darkening?

On any slow fist can be a required inward folding of petals.

Within the idea of apples there is also a room though what exactly can be done inside it gracefully?

No mail is ever relevant the same way the weather is.

Meaning can have the habit of winter.

Ascension does have to do with belief but there are other engines that defy explanation as well.

Return is the master of most descents.

As bright yellow as any tunnel would rather not be.

You cannot eat a color no matter how hungry your poems indicate blue.

One has a certain instinct for the archival.

If you fear hunger then you are without a particular childhood.

In tea one can also divine the past most pleasantly.

Is there any order and before that what else must be constructed?

Liken the forest to a kind of poetry and then wait for the bells that are always hinting at the next stanza.