It is called winter pulled from stars.
You can see the ice wings sliding
towards your mother’s house, clouds
like an old willow snagged into shadows,
prisoners drifting out from their locked cells.

It is called dreaming and nothing else.
The horizon falters like a guard shot in the face.
The prison collapses into a giant sinkhole.
Your mother and father whisper their losses
into a mattress that you watch catching fire.