Leaping water

You lay in the tallulah dark,
left side, mid room,
heater churning out
inconsistent blues about economy
or early illustrations of safety.

Your heart - it is a pulse-box,
rhythm wasn't placed
in the palm of its hearth,
the tinder yells for incense
then burns it to its stump.

Your body was electrifying
but only when it vined
up into the attic
of someone else's Sun.
This was just a Moon mistaken.

We lay in the tallulah dark,
souls made of ashtrays,
chilling in an empty
that couldn't offer warmth.
Frost breaks on a window.

Water's on the pane.