I see you in the morning light, in this bony weather
your skin is still coated in last year’s ice
memories tasting raw and acrid like leather
I shift from roasted years to melting mountains
piles of hailstone and earth,
softly abandoning each other for a dewy flow of empiricism
the only plausible hands are the ones not wearing gloves
I shall not varnish my pores with leather
or glaze my crust with ice
only flux can liberate my hands
from the frost
forever burning
reminiscence,
dripping along my fingers