You blow in
from another place and time,
a painted city with fickle headlines,
stockings rolled down,
brawls and bloody hands.
A delicate smile is tweaking
at the corner of your lips.
Immaculate snowflakes twinkle and fall –
an excuse to share the heat.
The cherubs look like
bullet holes
against the sun, their tiny wings
beating frantically
as they migrate to more temperate places.
Before the light, his
translucent skin
glows red, revealing the skeleton
inside him.
His eyes are frosty,
but the sun is ineffective and
bends away.
The walls of his prison
are fashioned from the bones of
furious mothers
and held together by translation.
