Sleet Fields
It’s been two years since we’ve stayed
the night in DC.
Tonight, just like that last one,
we can’t sleep. Cold is waiting
outside, waiting for us to turn around and look at it.
She wore my sweater that night,
in that awake-dark, in the cold.
Hid her face, buried mine
in her red hair. The bed held us
and we held each other, earnest.
Keeping our personal sleet-fields away,
taking warmth briefly.
Convinced we would survive through
until our heart-heat, our train-love
flew again, spiraling
through dusty-solid morning.
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