There's a flurry on the other side
of this single-glazed window glass
and even blankets and extra jumpers
cannot secrete me from the jolting
that seems to leak from my bones
and I break into icy sweat.
It's funny how my heart
has learnt to do vaults,
from the practice I get when
I contemplate my own faults,
again and again
while the window rattles before the
moon and it smiles because it knows
it's just as reliant on another light as me,
and it would take your father's largest shovel
to clear the snow to see
the real soul behind the mask,
and the terrible person I can be.