drops

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