The soil here is an old habit,
clinging to the ankles of the living.
We walked the perimeter of the garden,
counting the gaps where the light failed.
You said the frost looked like lace,
or perhaps like a slow-motion shatter.
You didn’t mention that the glass.
had already cut through the skin.
Now the clock has stopped ticking,
but the gears are still grinding.
We are waiting for the echo to fade,
before we decide who stays behind.
It is the quietest kind of currency,
a white trade for a cold breath.
Against the stillness of the chest,
every dead thing has a lily.
