Our instruments have no way of measuring this feeling
Can never cut below the floor, or penetrate the ceiling.
In the space between our houses, some bones have been discovered,
But our procession lurches on, as if we had recovered.
Draconian winter unforetold.
One solar day, suddenly you’re old.
Your little envelope just makes me cold,
Makes destination start to unfold.
Our documents are useless, or forged beyond believing.
Page forty-seven is unsigned, I need it by this evening.
In the space betw