dress your absence

c}{imps 8 my ears

Bite Your Tongue
After: Of Silence. Drowned the Sound of Your Retreat
by Jennifer Elise Foerster

That was one way to let go, what identity
borne in discussions of cats passed,
by this cupboard of shadows scattered dusk-bound.
The rest notes between clanging steam pipes,
congealed out of slippery hopes
quickly dissolved in this shameless drizzle.
Bite your tongue, dress your absence
under a calendar of retirement.
Snowfall reduced to a memory of snowfall,
cold still cold.