The day outside the bedclothes only seemed to get colder as the light grew. She sensed it colder. She lay in the stagnance her had made under the covers, curled tight, so the cold was only on her face and her hair as they lay exposed on the pillow. By cold beheaded.

She dewed into a thaw.

she spoke the density of sadness
in a voice fleet as stone
there was a trill in her throat - like
a mechanical nightingale
and her words came like the words of cut-up prose poetry
drawn from a hat.

she repeats unrepeatably.

i am the angel whose mouth is deep

the angel whose rubber mouth
is winged

i was the valve inflatable of the that hell
of novelty toys, and butchers taut and trim.

All that was left of her was agony.

She was like the snow before it melts.