it was winter when i wrote you ;
crags, rocks, trees, were all black
on white and ice --

ice,
it beat on my door --
slivered on the mattress,
sheets of it --
a bedfellow, willing,
eager.

when did the scorpion bring
warm coals to temper the night?
the howl of the moon,
the scorch of the sun --

inside was fire, gurgling.
it was froth and magma.

i heard the tempest, both sea and sky --

faith,
they called
it a rock.
a deep,
black,
rock


in ice.