Cold Morning

The uncertainty of breath
As I throw the rest of my toast
to fera
Watching the jam stain his lips
A curious shade of blue
Uncreated sky
Blue
It would have me believe that although
my breath is certain nothing else is
but worship and we
are all worshippers

The sky has been bitten and is now
Bleeding the branches
of a very tall tree,
tearing the flesh of air. the sound,

it (arisen)
was heard at the end of all things (called to)
The angel that cannot sing
but wields a sword just the same. Falling,
though by no means
from grace
Through the noise of torn wind, followed
by exhale
Such weight cannot be mirrored in mind of time
(Nonsense) is a much better pillow anyway
Where did that breath run off to?

It is tracing the edges of fera’s teeth