it was night above but yellow at the rim my last days here were spent raising the fence to keep the glow from seeping in beyond the gate i knew the crystal chandelier had released its spokes into the watercourse the cathedral in the fog unmanned the sunken meadow with no guilt began to ache but in my last days here i locked the gate and turned the mirror so that the silver side was looking at the paint it was night above but yellow at the rim there is ice in the spring there is ice in the spring