MAUSOLEUM

Taking a breath feels like death. Coldly,

a new moon: turn your money, empty 

your pockets and cross the untouched fields. 

A glance and the footprints declare you 

are alone; it is death after all, and endures 

like stone – the glass blades, iced leaves, 

marble stumps, the sharpness along the edge 

of things. Your breath carved from dust.