Does the weather undo you the winds and unwindings? What left
its residue on the porcelain? What charged singings
make veils in the cold? When cold windows
don't let winter and sharp. When too many songs undo.
Back in the city of a left, right, left
heart, back in the March of another year. Back to words
and what hammock they afternoon hang us through.
Somewhere between the hanging and the nap. Somewhere
between relax and retire. Between adopting another's
belief and the sweet surrogate lovers
that breed nothing but the next day and the way
to meet it. Back to work-a-day
and next week and the exfoliation of skin cells
sufficient to amnesia. Better to crawl out of our hides
a little at a time than to skin ourselves
alive just to forget, just to forget a touch.