North is sweet to iron, and iron is sweet to the tongue, is splintered in veins, under skin. Iron sleeps in the north, under
Because when I turn to a window, there’s always something in the air, not falling—a leaf in a current, a wisp of cotton; green
There are more stars in the universe than grains of sand on Earth, you tell me, lying on a towel sifting through quartz, calcium