how queer the cold

icicle snow-bites

cylindrical spheres like soft

like slipping like sleep.

hoarfrost catacombs comb through your hair, sinking ciphers into polarities you try to touch. (they are magnetizing.) calcifying clay into crystals, you coil yourself from the sun. it burns somewhere beneath the clouds–an opposing creation quelling icy water over your feet.

some days are quiet.

dragonflies curling between

your toes do not wake.

phosphenes feather-kiss your eyelids when you look at the sky. charcoal contrails spatter against clouds that hang like dead-weights; fractals sink to skin and make a home there–an impulsivity that spits back at you. glass spires stick to the palms of your hands and you can feel the cold when you breathe. it stands straight in your lungs.

there is solace in

freezing. cobalt catches the

quilt on your shoulders.