Midnights in March

I stare
out a
hands folded
into balls
in the
pockets of
my blue pea coat,
watch the
and swivels
my breath
when I walk
out into the

silver threads
of yearny breath,

or the sounds
my shoes make
while darting
across the concrete -

a quick step,
quicksilver girl,
even though
I have plenty of

There's a method
to the way you branch
your fingers across
the skin on my face;

there's a madness
to midnight in March,
where the frenzy girls
stifle tight yelps
across the frigged
foreheads of 11:00PM,
awaiting deeper hours,

I sit
with my ankles crossed,

all night I will
sit up with you,

turn myself into
a portrait, scratch
my hand against
your forehead,

my teeth chatter
in the face of the
night, holding
glass doors ajar
for those softly worn
ninnies, and the
ghost of another year
gone by with a yearning
nearing closer to my
bitten lip.