Least

Windows, Love, will replace themselves one night purely
through the wish to open them. Everything in its least

typical form, a transitional step to no more. Snow
will dissect itself into degrees of

comparison of the word
white on top of which a cat lies icy-white, a sacrifice to the thaw,
the mud grey as your voice that I peel into sounds, trivial,

free of syllabic offence. Be quiet or offend truth: shout that
the sheet is round. Err ruthlessly beyond this moment that
at most is

just us.