The parka may as well be
a hazmat enclosure:
I can hardly see sideways
without twisting stumbling
hideous
like a drunken child.
Thuggish gangs of snow
blow haphazard
around my thudding boots
impervious to the gravity
hauls
threatens to haul me down.
Whiskey in the flask
in my pocket clatters
like dice in my fist
the memory of it
hacks
into my chest like ice inhaled.
Icicles hang on my eyebrows
nostrils lips like leeches
restoring an attached limb
shooting stars with
hauntings
of old wounds.
