Cold Hands

         ... Pacing,
aching hands shaken
to get the cold out,

eyes fixed
open with the late night,
                  taking

apartment fragments
in a closed circle:

doorway, hall, floor,
kitchen, hall,
doorway, hall, floor...

exhaustion of 7 hours
research in a loud place,

now anxious quiet
in a closed circle:

floor, kitchen, hall,
             doorway...

every slat
from every window
crooked in the cold,

the creaking floor,

the painted-over cardboard
in the kicked-in

wall, all

yet to begin
its process of regeneration...

But my eyes have, thank
the thaw of sleep.


Your dreams have mobilized;
let the world
grow soft.