There is a window, where a shimmer means

cold, 

where a rattle causes pates to ache, to hollow, to crack. 

And

there is a doorway, that splits shins and withers bodies

ripe, dark;

to collect pieces 

that spilt out when no one was looking, when no one had eyes, as a meadow,

hasn’t a breeze, to bend it

to life. 

I haven’t touched

the waters, only waded into

the sea; and dreamed, and opened, and followed the visions 

down. 

Deep.