3.

Every line ends with I

because you begin there, with you framed

against a wildness you painted a

dark blue. Each brushstroke a house

built of hair and pigment, built of

peeled spruce, built of silence and moss.

You don’t seem to believe in the word and,

instead you take stock in splitting wood, in timber,

stacked for yourself against the coming dark. You called

that silence. Is that it?

The soundless music of a

man who tried to build his breath into a home?