there have been winters before my southern
sweater-style, frost-biting eyelashes soaked
in dappled moonlight and the nip of
icicle fangs. up north: they say i don't
know cold; i must agree (not living in the
nooks and crannies of mountains tasting like
purple satin). the snowflakes falling into
my mouth are bland—a pallor to match
my skin. light freckles made of sea salt and
sea foam laughs: patch work calendar, leather
skin diary. my beach-bleached bones jangle
like car keys in bottomless pockets, fraying:
the snakeskin diamond quilted my flute
can't hold loose seams together. This blood
is a duller red—no howls of twilight-colored
oxygen thrumming through. i'll have to stand on
rooftops (dimpling peach skin with silhouettes) to
draw my own magic marker constellations.