Words by Tomas deMers
Cold is how it ends. The fire goes out.
The temperature drops, snow falls in our lungs, in our liver,
piss freezes into a snowball of ice. We exhale one last
frosty breath. We’re gone.
Cold is a vastness, the planets like frozen billiard balls
clinking in the cocktail glass of space, Lake Michigan groaning
to its frozen shore, the sun behind a cloud of volcano dust.
Cold is fear, the crops not cropping, everything
burrowing toward the center, hoping it’s
not ice all the way down, praying that whatever
rules the immensity to which we cling will grant us
one more spring, one more chance to start over,
promising, this time, to get it right.