Perfect cold like the fringes of the sky
Clear, tinted, like with love
A faint infusion of male lust
I guess this is high pressure: no one functions
Aghast at this, like a wart, a black
Hair curving crookedly like a winter branch
I think I can remember elms. What else?
This light is like molten glass
Ice creeps in & out, like little mice
Their breath faint and sweet. The world
Receives this token well. At the end
The rush of language, like a great wind
Like a metaphor for death, like
The dark at the edge of the sky
A beautiful coloured poisonous stain
Oh look! We made this. It
Will grow colder yet.