two a.m.
bitter winter wind.
lick the bag. acrid taste.
cold crawls in through windows cracked.
it's snowing in the attic.

angel hair on porcelain, oh point one.
frost blankets my nostrils,
my brain sharp as first step's breath.
i lighten.

ravenous, dip fingers in nourishment.
place on tongue: cleaning agent pixie stick.
it eminates. bright-light vigor emulates
childlike mindset, so wonderfully overwhelmed
yet standing still, rock-steady at the helm.
confidence swells.

the clock chimes. kneel this time
for the second line, a second taste.
dismissive sniff, as in a tiff.
oh point two; can't feel my face.

icicles melt, drip burning down my throat.
slick grotto-hands tap feverishly.
butane blisters nasal caverns.
i grin from the thrill of its bite.
alert, i bathe in every second of it.

much more for sentiment than any practicality,
would rather see beauty than this sorry reality-
would rather build castles than stay on the ground,
cause it's snowing now up in the clouds.