Poem for Monday, December 7, 2009

Wee-Hour Drizzle

This wee-hour drizzle has struck (I'm

shivering). My bloodstream

is a frozen tundra, my capillaries are

solid fish stuck in a glacier, mid-swim.

My eyes are frozen open, so I

think about what I've come to accept:

I'll always sleep shirtless, even if I'm cold.

Many library books will never be opened.

The finite and the infinite are oil and water.

The list goes on; we don't.

This drizzle goes on for months before

birds' feathers flap northward bound.

I'll try to think of you for fireplace

warmth, but you're frozen with everything.

Between my brain cells, talking

to me in a block of ice with blue-lipped

determination. A silver smile, a white

cloud, and eventually no colors.

And I will go deaf in April from

all of your words resounding at once.