But the winter won’t kill you.
Winter is life.
You’re dead.
Your crystalline face
buried deep in the soil of my soul.
What is the soul,
but everything remembering everything?
Hark here old druids.
Hark here, let it be known.
I kissed you under a street lamp
in the Upper East Side
around midnight,
got busy with my hands
in your tight hot pink panties.
The aristocrats dreamed.
We kissed in a field in Texas.
Always passionate kisses in the throws of sex.
I was 26 years old when I ran down
the streets of New York City
in my hiking boots
at a six-minute mile pace
with her by my side,
months before
you and I would meet each other.
Who is she?
Who are you?
What is this?
It’s in the soil.
I don’t think you’re in the City anymore.
You may be in Vermont, or that could be
our ghost.
But the winter won’t kill you.
Nothing will.
Hark here old druids,
let it be known.
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