Long at last against the glass-
the peaked face of winters' gasps-
phantom hunches of frostbit dew,
against the urgent morning mass.
With the snow came the tear,
the wound in half the center bare-
supple soft meat oozing crimson,
in which my body basks towards morning glare.
I long for you, I would assume,
though your presence does not exist,
though you are the figure-eight,
in which my imagination persists,
Perhaps the magnetic field,
of overlapping universe,
would compell my atoms to revere,
you across flooding mass of multiverse.