cold.
not that cold,
a slender fingernail
caressing.
i don’t have long nails for a reason.
wait
a few boys and girls will freeze
tonight, like a sleep, and their
names are nathaniel like mine, and sam,
and stanley and rosalind and
jerry who is only
nine.
it snows feet.
everything drowns,
a young salamander cushy in a pillow.
but in the widow’s walks,
among the lip balms and trophies
packed with sawdust
and wires and glass
there’s a phrase,
an oath of scorn,
chestnut roasting in fire,
jack frost at
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