winter has set the boundage, bars of chill, escape-urge killers, self-imprisoned by our ruthless timidity, that both comforts yet, worse violates our truthful, unwanted inadmissible-neediness by purging the touches and the knowing kindage, this then, this preface, your reminding of-as-of-yet untouched, half-invitational, half-regret, half-cursed, whole red need for 2am friends to fill the void that poems can nβere fill