At first winter,
the geese congregate,
gabbling as they do,
churning grey tea to chop,
shatter-glass ice
fashioned at the edges.
From a distance,
you frame it,
focus,
while on the inside,
a glacier slopes the lungs,
this cold syrup
knowing no April,
until it’s time to press.
And exhale,
jungle clouds
fogging the vision,
reading for an instant
like an open door
to a
hothouse,
a wall of humidity.
But no.
It's a shutter-click.
A finite blast
of false positive,
brushing you with
a counterfeit warmth.
