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|  UNDER COVERS

 
  Cold spring fog hugs
the stark lamplight.
Slips down
branch tip, into house
through pores of mortar, and cracks
in windows and doors,
through blanket,
through skin
to the channel
of marrow in my bones.

The heater's on but does nothing;
heats only the bookshelves
and a stool. Deeper into the blanket I go
until I reach Jake's body,
his soft dough of warmth. Up against him
I steal as much as I can
while he sleeps, gather and build
a hot glow that turns away
the damp air in folds.
We radiate a while.

Slowly I have to get up,
to start my day. And once started
there's no turning back,
no getting back to this one moment.
My body pulls away
from him with the sadness
of a tearing page.


from The Wind is a Tall Man Striding
watershedBooks
2000
Copyright © Jim Slominski