So at once I wish it was winter and it was cold, outside
our bodies sunk perfect every year into coats and out
of them by the shabbiness of the gulf that goes on forever
during the trick of how you enjoy being you and how me.
Not that the trick doesn't always wind up sawn in half, of course,
at the end of a contest to be statues twisted breathless
inside a room's nocturnal wrapping, pretending to give away
your secrets when parental heckles raised the curtain on my socks
and the tyranny of colours fetched in and out the same.
But I wish you had chosen to visit me on this occasion
specifically to impersonate warmth the way it's remembered,
like the freezes of blanketed folk portrayed, elisions arranged in
perceptible decline, doing more than snap bitterly at ones heels
when stepped on like an angel no less unused: now it's winter and
it is cold even by my standards young and then old both get to
walk out once perfect into the gritty realism of the streets
and feel hard done by with impunity becoming rhythm.
Those hints you send of hours started differently will do for now.