midnight in winter
Ice on the window: skin of the world
we do not want, the word the lips
refuse to spill. The enemy.
The fragile, dermal glass is there,
impotent shout against the winter.
Voice cries out, silent, inside:
whisper, mutter, shiver, curse.
A distant train from someplace warm
howls. It carries memories
of summer in boxes, raging at heat
as if it wanted to hurt us deeply.
Coals at the core tremble, red
with what we remember turning gray.
The fist of night will loose the day.
Life will briefly thaw a bit
and flutter with what we cannot say.