Sometimes I want to live in molasses, to sleep cryogenically
with a broken watch around my wrist
and a crampon in my back pocket as icy insurance,
but then I remember the way that the cold makes my fingers feel,
stiff, shaken, and stuck to the inside of my pockets  
as I kick at charcoal, greying what is left of last December's beautiful snow, resolving at last that this year will soon melt through
me, around slowly dying embers, wide awake and warm.