Winter's Queen
By Godot
Stacked on the table, books, which you keep shut,
those books he sent to you. "He's such a pill,"
you think, tea with essence of bergamot
growing cool on the chipped-paint windowsill.
He does not breathe -- his air is halogen
when you are breathing someone else's breath.
He slams the window, opens it again;
the wind's so cold he hopes he'll catch his death.
You recall, there are three ways heat is lost:
radiation, conduction, convection,
and scratch a fingernail against the frost,
another's name, with nectarous affection,
but half the pleasure that your sleep will grant
is born of knowing that the last man can't.
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Copyright 2010 Godot
Published on Monday, April 27, 2015.
Filed under:
"Poetry"