all of you sitting there together under the tree with red filaments, laughing and cursing, they are falling and making red rivers in the cliffs between the floor stones. weeks will pass until you notice the blood on your sandals. like keeping a secret deep in your stomach until water is boiling there. and the sun will feel cold on your face. “make winter come,” you will plead, after searching the aisles for an idol of the white ossiah, “make the snows send the soldiers home.”