Darja, Winter

My voice is cold asleep.
Down-to-your-bones naked
you stretch white legs and
darken eyes ever earlier.
The flowstone fields where
cars freeze to nothing harden
beyond what we are willing
to believe. I mound up heatless
bits of word and suck your
crystal fingers, tongue-stuck
and waiting for clear roads.
I shovel your hair from my
alley mouth; you roll over
sigh, and steal the covers.