SHE THOUGHT I WISHED FOR “THIMBLE-WINTER”
this ghosttown of snowdrifts,
his white, white eyes.
there is something more
than cold in the wind, and
something less too.
snowflakes catch on his
lashes, icicles on my
moustache. last night
i dreamt i was Loge, only
out consumed by fire—only
outlied by nothing and no one.
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