The
thing about the middle of the winter is,
it
chases you, erases you, displaces your relation
to
the simplest things – its wings beat rivulets
of
freeze into your spirit’s unconsidered ease –
it
finds the vault and turns the key – unlocks
humility
– you see you are as vacant and as old
and
cold as any light-year through unanswerable
space:
it is a taste of cosmos from which you
will never quite recover. It is a memorable lover.
.
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