Forgotten Winter

Wring, viscosity frosted hands!
The cold does not feel like a desert
to my face anymore. The desolation's
whispers resemble a vacuum running
so long it does not register, not recent
enough to become a beloved 
feature-length landscape. The blue
ceiling reminds my feet that they 
used to stand and walk into the 
squalling kidney of the storms 
and eat snow, feast on blizzard
meat like a raven on a corpse on 
the darkest February night.