The Frost and the Sun

The morning the snow stopped,

I saw a salt-stained skeleton

stretch across the subway floor

to reach a fawn fossil

coiled in the corner

for warmth.

 

But the numb cold morning cannot

cover the honey streaks of sun,

stretching naked in front

of the elevated train window,

or interrupt the fire yolk of her

rising,

 

so that, when treading a hell

of ice that clings to the street like lust long mistaken

for love, I see cherry buds bursting

through branches that have watched the frost

die every time.

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