your feet
are cold.
your hands,
your heart.
there's frost
on the windows.
the paper
is ice cold
as you bend
down with
the door open
to retrieve
it from
the porch.
the news is
cold. the dead
are cold.
the dog
feels the wind
and retreats
back inside.
everything
in this weather
is on hold.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
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