These faces, the voice of joy. Birds wind themselves through the small bones of our features, and our eyes are filled with song. Long thin fingers trace blood along our thighs. The dawn brings itself to us, pushes under our hair, against our shoulders. We are laughing under blankets. We are speaking of ghosts. Each day dies, each day lives on. Blue flashes on, flashes on. Our teeth are bruising our lips. A woman turns into a mountain that turns into steam. We step out into the snow, and the world is so wide.