I have looked into the powdery fog and almost-frozen mud:
Crusted over, crumbling, like old towels or rugs.
I have stuck my hands in fridges and frozen chicken guts.
The cold is too diverse a thing to abhor or love.
I have not outsmarted frost or even ice, to my chagrin.
I have never scraped the cold from any thin, deficient skin.
I have felt the chill spawn snowflakes that melt between my hands,
And holidays: feasts and presents: pies and violins.
Yet, as my palms and fingers turn the shade of fading coal dust,
I’ll count the coats and carabiners strewn across some ruined lands.
I doubt they’ll find the bodies, but even if they do,
They’ll be casualties and close companions of the hazy coldness.
