I am a prism

I capture you, you capture me

This is the inside:
With its bags, the brilliant failures.
Stoned into exposition, a sense of dread
-Funny to me, like justice

Quietly sprawling in white noise,
Unreflected and virgin as blood.
Yet its mold grew sound resistant
And the more I obscure it,

The livelier it gets.
But I let it pour out of me, 
Like venom out of a wound
Or fish swimming in soup.

Outside is made of snow and telephone pillars,
A line of wood silhouettes like unfinished graveyard crosses.
I beg it: Oh, mountain, collapse onto me! Your Beauty
Of Red optical fibre and my sorrow stored in bones

All becomes lines in your signal,
A code of everything I wished for.