365 Poems – 170 Leaving (Rough First Draft)


I collect wounds,

and bury them,

while gulping light

and watching

wonder crystallize.


Depression fails

to recover shape.


I will leave behind

my compass.


My heart and feet

know North well.


I know I will not

be reborn in snow,

but if I stay here,

chance of survival

is slim.


Anyway, blood

is thicker in winter,

and will keep me warm.