The backbone of a cottonwood on the clouds, a fossil
through my window —
The nail of the moon, cupping the weight of the sky,
low-lidded demon, jeweled crown.
Hands sticking out of trees,
green hands and fingers,
quiet hillsides return to the redoubt of the dark.
The dog curls in upon herself and I too
have collapsed into a ball, to hold what heat
I have and keep myself warm with my own breath
The body shakes, that’s all it knows to do,
to make it through.