Long at last against the glass-

the peaked face of winters' gasps-

phantom hunches of frostbit dew,

against the urgent morning mass. 

With the snow came the tear,

the wound in half the center bare-

supple soft meat oozing crimson,

in which my body basks towards morning glare. 

I long for you, I would assume,

though your presence does not exist,

though you are the figure-eight,

in which my imagination persists,

Perhaps the magnetic field,

of overlapping universe,

would compell my atoms to revere,

 you across flooding mass of multiverse.