it's a beautiful world, your friend is dying. absolute leaves from the
ghost of trees blast off to the wind choice. now and then, running
around in rain, you stop for cinders. it's a beauty to the world, dead
as your friend. then you reach all those poles that measure here and
there. you climb steep something, to the very top or not. the wind is
just an extra thing, a dilation practiced for close occasion. separation
to the mountaintop, and the running sentence says the same as when,
warmer, all was right. the beautiful world encodes, with vigour chiming
on the delicate avalanche. it's winter here forever, but down we go to
autumn. your friend, the ride of a lifetime. stop to drink the water
that you brought. stop to breathe an opening. stop with one road but
open up two. the day creeps into outward memory, of your friend, or your
friend's friend, or mountains, wind, grey, lowering, cloud or rain.
