summer’s eve

the death of winter has left in its wake:
a cats tail laced through your fingers, soft constriction.
a claggy, deep, sandy pit in your chest in which you continue to dig.
dipping your hands in the layer beneath the sun-warmed surface,
damp friction under your fingernails.
signs and suffering from below your hair.
tracing the rough glitter around the makeshift halo you hold.