Life at 10

at 10 below it starts
to hurt to breathe,

the nose so dry the
nostril bloody with

the sucking of the cold
air, even though you

take short strangled
gulps of breath through

the black ice of a
wool scarf frozen with

your own spittle, trying
to warm the air just

a little, before it reaches
the lungs, cold still

you cough as if something
harsh and raw is moving

there inside of you, is
the sharp crunch of

snow you hear beneath
your boot echoed

in that cavity surrounding
your cold heart as well?


Copyright 1997 The Courage of Our Confusion. All Rights Reserved. Comments? E-mail comments@confusio.com
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