The block. Why did you wear shorts?
It’s twenty seven. White wind
Is blowing snow off the branches.
It catches like a bandana gagging
The melt in our throats. Your blood
Circulation speeds up. My legs
Speed up. Your veins throb
To maintain ninety eight point six.
The chill tells your heart
To pump, pump, pump.
My capillaries are closed. The cold
Seeps, seeps, seeps.
I become a statue of night air. Feel
My legs, colder than a metal rod
Steeped in snow. I’m warm
With envy over the neighbors’ display.
The electricity can’t melt this green
Feeling in my stomach. I can’t feel
My nose but for the clear liquid
About to crawl down. It is the moon’s
Brightest night of the year. The sky
Still shows blue under black. We face
The canyon wind, inhale
The ticking air. Though your skin
Is red with cold you know nothing
On freezing extremities.
You have a pulse and I the impulse.
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