Think of worst.
Think of worry & woolen washer cycles.
Think, well, why won’t this cigarette
smoke any damn faster? In winter,
the wretched knocking of incisors
when pea coat, gloves & scarf fail,
when fashion finally meets utility
but the wind has more wile & longer sleeves
to hide it in, when the only excellent idea
is to go inside & fuck. Winter
is a suicide note wrapped in baptismal white,
a white girl wrapped in suicide black—
Baptize me, baby, ’cause it’s cold out. Side with me, baby.
Something I just need creeps around the evergreens
each December. It hides between the omitted
& third buttons of flannel shirts,
in cleavage I can only appreciate
because (as a gay) there
is a place I simply refuse to go—
means “drink gin until warm & fuzzy”
& “think straight when you can’t walk it.”
You, yes, you, how can you
love winter? Love leather, love boots,
love the shiny knees leather boots reach up to,
love the crescent shape your eyes caress,
your hands glove deeply. Love
The connotation of alabaster skirts around
black pine—something to trudge through
drifts & slush for. The love of winter,
I’m convinced, was brought home by a newlywed
whose hand was full of her husband
by the fireplace. The hand that hardest clenched
the hearthrug became the dwelling place
of a diamond so passive-aggressive
it could only be the wonder of winter:
I love you harder than a cabin floor.
What place is there for lovers where
winter is the only promise?
Saxon men were not lovers.
They could melt the panic off their women’s breasts.
They fell hard on the eyes like sleet
& would whistle in the unsuspecting sky
between raised thighs like an arrow.
Of sex—musky, animalistic, ritual—
they were master wielders, bearded
like the capital G in Godless.
is the season of desertion. Think
color; think in terms of what void
this pie filling fills. Think of dessert
& what’s left over. Think felt up
& what’s left to get under; think
of what’s left of you when he leaves.
Ain’t no sunshine, just more naked
trees & smoke rising. Witness
the decline in creation, but thank heaven
for snow in pollen’s absence
& snow for warning girls in cabins:
I don’t even put my gin on ice.