Ah, a warm cup. Take it.
Winter's obscene coziness has brought
companions as flushed and running as the boats
where the cousins of my friend make their home
for a duration of heartfelt strokes, as the water
swoons to the prow's authorship.
The smallest changes are brought over a sip.
Late night sabotage, academic arson because
of a lack of faith, geyser-treachery- with warmth
is forgotten the level-chested month of waste,
with warmth is forgotten the limitations of pulse,
with warmth is forgotten the cold lack of touch,
warmth being gainful exploration, tight-coiled breath
like the rower and their treatment of the lake,
paddling away dead afterthoughts that float
like the fallen, broken and damned biscuit in Hades.