west of town they're these low
white clouds filled with frost
straddling the mountains like
a woman's thighs,

it's not cold enough to freeze
but bitter enough to bite through
the glass and needle into the cracks
small as pin-******,

Westcliffe's got the worst of it but I've
been thinking opposite of your whereabouts
ever since you told me I'd be better off alone
cut straight in with a bodkin, 'cept you had
no thread, just took any sharp object meant
for better things and delivered readily.