Past imperfect: present impossible.


Cold seeps through bones
hoar frost crunches, the land sleeps
and so do we;

you lie there dreaming
of an Italian sea, a girl you loved
and what of me?



Trees sentinel dead with winter
ice seeping in their veins
winter’s caught beneath my skin
heart cold and silent.

You returned in dead of winter
seeking warmth: something you understood
a familiar heart to stalk, without thought
I let you in.



Grass bright with ice
dog sniffs frozen wind
can’t find a scent to follow
nor can I.


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