passing over the hills

the bulb in my lamp suspended from my ceiling
was finicky was stumbling for air
could not breathe. It fell apart
it broke in two places
it caught the corner of my eye like a drop of rain
swallowed from the night sky it receded like the skin underneath unclipped nails
tender and pale
the creases in the fingers
passing over the hills
over the tree tops
into the cold horizon
the threading
of clockwork driven sun
rattling the joints of bones bending
holding
scraping air
we drink heavily with humid stager.
towards the window the plants will lean away

they are my only witness

their somber faces
drinking, belching
bathing in the vacuum of my breath
they walk away.
I watch them walk away
they live by the window
they through stones like secret messages