Where is the lust, it's beckoned twin,
it's dawning onset of emptiness. Emptiness
-no: embarassment.
Where is the biological imperative
in such a feeling, to feel constanstly, to live the feeling like a habit, to go along brushing teeth and closing doors?

If I felt nothing it was because I was pretending
that the cold cleansed, that moon rays laying lavishly across rippled banks of the first snow, were
somehow poetic, thus eternal. If I forgot
the conditioned response it was lost on the frugal lake,
the clear water
- still, pure -
aground encroaching ice.