What to do with the rose blushed horizon line which skims across the water in my winter veins. How to inhabit the warmth of this strange contentment. Without scratching at the walls inside. Absent the agitation. Independent of the crush. Without tearing into my secret sick reserves. All of the shadows I worship, the beautiful pain I seek. If I let go of the rage, who would I become and how would I go about unthreading trickery from truth. What if the bottom of the ocean suddenly reversed its mind, out of nowhere became infinite sky. I can almost reach it as though bending my body back into the forward motion of time. If I trusted the color in my own eyes was meant entirely for me. A silent universe spins soft against my thin-ribbed imagination. How cold this wandering, how glittered, how pristine. Footsteps in the open air. All the world brighter. And even the chaos is, at least for now, clean.