January’s coarse kiss
has buried me.
not unlike the Flesh of a man long dead,
whom I had given more than gold
and amputated members.

so, i think of spring,
lessons from Chesterton,
collared dresses and cloth shoes,
an open window,

and of June,
when i’ve been stripped down to bare bone,
the mind and body released under the sun,

i’ll sew my arms back on
with silver and string.

but not tonight.

and not tomorrow.

the needle sings songs
of things too sweet and lustrous.

and the sun,
it pains my skin,
made pale by lack of embrace.

so, i think of morning,
dreaming and waking,
warm socks and soft hands,
a closed door.

January’s coarse kiss
buried me.
the dirt rose like a wave,
only to cover my feet
and desist.