Climate

The breezeway is smeared with ice,
drilling and bleating with cold.
Thin bits of grass are
whipped back into their black shapes for rest.
Counting the shakes in the bush,
the lovers stand against white railing.
Seems like the wind is a trick,
seems like the birds have all died.
Their moon is pinned to night like
a bright thread in velvet,
string hanging in the cream of songs
sung in darkness. The smoke from his
mouth speaks up in the quiet passing of herbs.
She remembers first wanting him,
the lace details and drunken force-
hard leaps into neon pasture with their eyes sewn closed.
It was warm always, a splash of guava juice in
the flute to start.
He would sing something new and
she wanted to drag it on as long as day went.
A trusty fever then nothing- no exact flavor,
the jubilant spread cut short with a neat slice
of goodnight.
A red grip goes out to
end in the frost, and while he is smoking,
she will go the same way.

© The Iron Sister 2018

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