Winter broke and entered years ago,
pressing icy fingers against our skin,
wandering under our shirts,
searching for our hearts,
listening as we slowly wound down –
we were watches kept in a drawer of an empty house.
But I think you must have jacked open
some painted-over lead-poisoned window,
somewhere, deep inside,
(maybe in that sealed-up chamber of a basement tomb
with a wood-burning stove and
a second-hand recliner with a place
for a beer to slowly warm, but not a place for everything)
letting a southern wind blow through
this Northern plain and breathe Spring into my heart,
or my cerebellum,
making me wonder if –
anyway then you woke and
Summer bloomed into my lips, my hips,
they rocked like ships
oh, and
I think for a little while, maybe, you and I
can keep the window open, keep
the two by four jammed
up against the door, keep it
barred against the
ravenous wolfish Fall,
where he waits,
anticipates
the last of the ticks
as he licks
his lips
and yawns
at the door.
Halfway North 