It's cold and Julia
has burnt toes,
rorschach apple
face. Joints where skin
flakes a red
pain. She doesn't
like it much, can't
muffle properly,
huffs air through
pillowed lungs, blisters
organs with frost.
So cold! She rubs
flesh to flesh, denim,
wool. Her feet are
mausoleums, white
winters where something
now petrified lived.
.
"I'm walking on
rocks," she thinks.
And watches the empty
dogwoods fondle each
other, tongues a freeze
crippled thumb. Her body
lemon-hued
like a breathing season
leans high action on the
stop sign. Pluck
her tendons right, they
echo like a rings of an
old age--harmonics
of the bus that never comes.
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