All around the earth opens to endless tunnels
a man digs
collapsed on the kitchen table
a drunk, arms reddening
she's a weary historian from afar
barks commands into an empty room
the round table an altar
you leave out scraps of food
for the hungry ghosts & drink.
She is the will.
A vase of dried flowers
point to the deep, dark paneled ceiling
a varathened shelter
the birch chairs passed on from generations
older than the historian
(measured in lunar years)
I must go to sleep leaving you unconscious.
Look up through the floor.
A white horse crashes through the ice flailing
blue ice, is it a death?