the purple sheath on mountain crests
it is not dawn
the stench of six day old fish
it is not rot
the click of teeth and claw on wood
it is not mice
the crush of fragments at my feet
it is not glass
the mark of black and mottled blue
it is not a scar
the crimson taint upon my collar
it is not blood
this limb, broken through the pane
it is not an arm
the thin reflection in the window
it is not me
i am not here
i must not stay
the fog dividing there from here
it is not my breath
the trickle of water, tapping at my throat
it is not tears
the crack in the wall, opening beyond
it is not a door
the void that panics in my breast
it is not love
the final flash on evening snow
it is not hope
the sigh that soothes all dissent
it is not your business
everything is fine
i am fine
the purple sheath on mountain crests
it is not dusk
