The black bars on the windows, tusked in ice, 

curve into hearts.

 

The bones in my toes crack with sleep.

 

Morning shadow rests on chain link,

beside the vibration and plume 

of a dealer’s breath.

 

Whispers on the mattress, 

Your chest hair glued to my belly.

 

Winter is our time.

 

Why do we sing? I asked.

                   The birds. You said.

 

Do people know that love like this exists?

 

Aren’t they bored? 

 

How can they stand it,

without it?