Through an accidental crack in the curtain I can see the eight o'clock light change from charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things in the morning that has a thick skin of ice on it as the water tank has, so nothing flows, all is bone, telling its tale of how hard the night had to be for any heart caught out in it, just flesh and blood no match for the mindless chill that's settled in, a great stone bird, its wings stretched stiff from the tip of Letter Hill to the cobbled bay, its gaze glacial, its hook-and-scrabble claws fast clamped on every window, its petrifying breath a cage in which all the warmth we were is shivering.
Blustery 25-below, O Walt, I wouldn't go And live with animals tonight— Or anytime soon. How do They survive in their snowy lairs? How could I, for that matter, who Haven't taken the wild Swedish plunge Every chilly night to thicken my fur layer By layer, I who doze by the fire With the phone to my ear, Doze the whole new year Listening to my wife in such weird Zone-warping tropical heat, naked, Whispering her desire for 50-below, If it brings her home. That's fur Of a different nature, Walt, layer Upon layer of love that glows, grows Over us like a sun-lit coat. O we are hothouse flowers, Walt, Naked and limply alive in a narrow Equatorial band. Otherwise, we die. Walt, we must make do With our lovely human hair.