cold
like there's no tomorrow
we'll just shiver aside
our new problems and
those of antiquity
where new york minutes
become alaskan hours of
the dark, ashen whims
undoubtedly blowing with the snow
through this hair, hanging
as icicles
cold
like there's no today

not standing for the clinical stares
of flourescents cemented
to the ceiling,
loose bolts and starkly
empty rooms
but now we've got our wildnerness
of chapped lip and bone
smiling to the cracks and pores
of old wounded skin surfaces
still the dark
flies into your heart and mine
sleeping there until we let
the windows at our elbows and knees open
through the muscle tissue and quite distant
from where monochrome still rests deeply

we appreciate the noncompany
so that don't see but we
feel
while the snow sifts
the memory.