The white flesh of your right arm
covers my bones, warms my
bones until the calcium
cackles, lost between
stations. It is winter
now and we burn
wood in a fire to dry
our rain soaked clothes.
Our umbrellas bent with
the weight of the wind.
A macabre statue
of plastic and metal,
a modern art exhibition.
We eat soups and stews,
vegetables and meat
melting into a ***, The
smell of it turning our lips
upwards into a smile. I
loved you in the autumn,
it's true, but it is only now
that I feel at home in the heat
of your soul.