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The winter of skin

by Christina Gleason

The winter of skin is here:

It begins at night, a pale strata
advancing on shores of walks
and doors, hills become breasts,
plump and chalky under crystaline
perspiration, splayed fingers of trees
bend to touch the broad shoulders
of hidden cars.

Plows push that thick wetness
into dirty calves and thighs,
leave the topography of salted roads
in unshaven faces.

We tread rough these mornings
with no way to caress the bodies
beneath our feet, resort to bruising
white flesh until Spring.


Author's Note: Major revamp work due on last stanza.

Posted on 01/23/2004
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason

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