I choose a corner where the rafters lean,

so near they press the night against my skull;

the joists resist—the timber, tight and mean—

and walls grow thin enough to hear your pulse.

The mountain’s dust has settled in your chest;

you vanish downward—wordless, slow, and deep—

the earth receiving you like stolen breath.

No ladder down. No light to mark the slope.

You disappear the way a door goes dark.

You said: The fire’s near—move from the tribe;

strike flint to keep our worlds apart.

Don’t stay too long in Leadville’s starless night.

Repeat the tale: this town is not your home;

the blood that stains its rocks is yours alone.