Rising heat
and the
various plastics, and metal. And cold
The cold that spreads and burns.
I can't see
but I know your form
and prise it from your hands,
Sweating.
The drip of the loosening end
and the fray
and the cut -
the cut that I make,
She mote it be that
indulgences rot in your palms if held for too long.
I think of berries all through winter
but fruits left in the mouth taste bitter
and the sugars burn.
Night passes, and heals me.
and the wheel turns.