It is winter in the ******* she nibbled,
minus festivities, strained fibers
of holiday's lore seeking confinement
in sore redness between your nails.
Like the last fervent muffle
of whizzing domino lines
struck by spring's sprigs,
the numbers nip in low spirits,
blackened from speech and stubble.
Hardly is the slow breath worth
your angled chin a glimmer,
because when the sun
snaps at your chest like an egg,
little do you know
how it commits adultery
when you sleep,
and only when you sleep.