Temple bells ring.

An angel sings;
its voice fades into the gutter like screeching tires
of an oncoming vehicle,
a demented daemon that jumps the curb,
heading straight toward us.

The steam hisses;
under your feet where your cracked soles scrape over the frost,
you freeze hell over through the roots
of frozen kikuyu dimension-blades
that stand out like Satan’s daggers.

Your hands turn blue,
every joint a rusted copper-chain link that squeezes out
the smell of playground oil over your coconut skin,
which, in turn, turns to jasmine milk that flows
from the split-ends of your hair

into my temple.