the wind shakes the windows in their dressings like a child trying to wake its dead mother . you touch my face with the back of your hand, soft as the things that will be tanned in the slurry of our boiled- brains . there is a clank from the cast radiator that musters courage up from floorboards below . the mice run
scared.
your brow is deerskin that is pulled formfitting across my dry,
cupped fingers
it wants small holes put in it as it wears
suppler
into
a look
just
like kissing wool
the
heather inside the layers
that get put on-
wicking off like collagen
as the wintry madness finds us