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My breath hardly makes a mark
across the frosted day
and light disappeared into a tiny
box quite some time ago.
Ah, the empty holds only silence
in its tender folds

in which I twirl, suspended
in the moot splendor of dark-shine --
an icicle or a piece of paper
waiting for the match to scratch
or a big hungry rat. Either way 
it doesn't matter, for the ravens
have flown from his hands.
All night they covered my dreams
with their vacuous wings.