Winter Longings Aggravate

You cherish your warm winter lair –
but something in you rumbles something
else is unforgivably not there – a perfect
presence? – yes; and therefore not
attainable? – you’d reasonably guess:

which matters to your core about
as much as telling it it can’t have more
would ever do: your psyche is a crying
infant and an angry shrew: it knows
no gravity or time or place: all it knows

is that beside you in your bed resides
a hungry space that wants to swallow
up a large strong fleshly warmth
and hold it there for you to hold all night:
a sensually full resplendent quiet

incrementally awake, asleep big human
mammal right along the length, breadth
and circumference of you, to sniff
and kiss and lick and nibble and perhaps
occasionally bite – and bait with whispered

personal suggestions nuzzlingly delivered –
out, profoundly out, of anybody else’s
hearing, scent or sight. Oh! – turn off
the light: it’s late. Winter longings
aggravate. Lucky bears! They hibernate.

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