she speaks

Sometimes,

freezing on the

on-ramp of an

interstate, you just want

the warmth

and nothing but

elsewhere, to flood

through your chest

and your hands,

to get yourself

to the other side

of the looking glass

between you

and the whole

fucking world.

To cover you

like your sleeping bag

can't. Maybe just

to hide in

another darkness.

To not piss

in the rain where

the ice-wind

cuts your legs, cuts

up inside of you

where no one

should be you don't

want.

Sometimes that's

all you want -

the warmth

elsewhere is;

might be . . . impossible to tell

with all this

shivering.