of cold that hangs over the midwest
like a curtain rimmed with icicles
it isn't worth trying to solidify yourself
to turn into yourself into some kind of
marble stone that you've only seen in
the venetian hanging overhead like some
great dream you couldn't quite reach
but could see as clearly as if it were the
cold, crystallizing in your rapid breath
over and over again, the white cloud of
oxygen making noiseless sounds out of
your cactus mouth, freewheeling like a
butterfly and sinking like lime colored
coral to the bottom of the dark blue sea
where it's just as cold as the place you
call home where i call home where we
grew up learning to hold doors, promises
and the rest in the nest of our hearts where
birds compose symphonies sometime soon
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