The Cold

Her unshod feet, drag, transverse the pursuit of the cold. 

Unripe, our toes recoil, to the bite of the cold. 

Surrender To algidity, so does this ground,

Evermore, we twist, amass, though stranded in isolation, shroud the cold. 

To turn in your hand, to rub the stone in your pocket; to peel an orange and know your purpose. 

The world is all that is the case above the cold. 

This house is full, now.

Terribly great, this house is full; mistake your future as bright and understand the grief disappeared by the cold. 

A lost body is that which strays. The sequence disappears, they said, it's a message for you. 

A lost body mourns the soul; the terrible soul consumed, disappeared by the cold. 

Struck by vacuity; refraining in selfdom behind secured, frosted windows. 

Plunged the world into cold. 

Oh, the angels of memory grow weary. We are asked to remember these angels. 

On the surface, where our temples throb, may we please please rest our weary heads. Ear to the ground, hear? The bubbling cold. 

Do we not notice, or appreciate the plunge? 

So provoke and so awakes, the warming cold.

The late recover. The visible cower; 

big soulless eyes peak through (who’s?) hands press into sockets (see the stars?) and bear witness to the creatures more dire created by the cold. 

We’ve chosen to entomb, to sleep atop the tooth. The angel of memory will reveal. 

This house is empty, now, built upon the receding cold. 

“That’s what's going to save us.” The sequence disappears and I am with the dead. 

Message for Lily: no more do you reach, don’t be afraid, plunge! awaken to the sound of the knocking cold.