A furious screaming came off the lakes And drowned out a million curses Hiding from the cold, as hands in their pockets: Isolated and trembling. Despite a proprioception lost, One body, blue at the tips, curls closer To the dikes of thickening blood, That, neatly, remain outward, exposed. Do we not huddle in coaches and spaces When our passions’ armor cracks? Do we not crave touch for lack of warmth When the skies above are clear? Do we not risk hypothermia When we expose ourselves to another? We are the organs of great cities, As we are great cities of cells Seeking outlet on natural course all rigid Those unconscious fraternities Ebb and grow as we, like lakes, turn to floes By cruel chemical realities held to bodies are— As hands of distant lovers are— Seeking outlet, seeking tributary. Stagnant, though, cities stand As the thin-skinned tissues flow Swelling at inlets, at terminus expand To compensate, give room— This winter of hearts only lengthens And so bodies begin to quake As our bedrock breaks through Its torments cutting outward from the skin.