The cold is a knife-slice on the skin.
The heart says no, over and over.
This is not what you want.
What you want is that plush crimson
blanket called love: the pulsing
blood-rush that provokes
a minimetamorphosis. An object,
held by a gaze, radiating being.
You would say passion but a demon
has sewn your lips shut. The silver
needle lies there like the melting
sunlit snow beneath your feet.
It looks up as if to ask, Tell me, how
often do you feel the way you feel?