II
I am so cold tonight. Lend me your fever
to mull my long pastures of crumbling ice.
Warm the jagged mountains in my spine
that now shiver with cold. I will lie still as statuary.
I will hang my white lantern across your gaze
so you may see it shining, feel its sudden glow,
use it to construe the dark corners of your life.
As you wade through my snowy limbs,
I will fill you with wonder. True, I will hurl you
hard against your nerve, till your colors flare
like an aurora in the open arms of the sky.
Has the spectrum shattered across the ice?
I see you walk through blue only—
a dim, narrow band. Once fluorescent with life,
you grow faint in dismal shadows.
Your temperature has taken flight
like a small Antarctic bird and begun circling
the cliff head, climbing higher and higher.
Your fever troubles me. I am afraid
your pulse may swerve, your passion waver,
deliriums gallop through your mind
like ghost ponies, and your brave heart stumble.
Beg me once again, and I will soothe your fever.
But if I press my cold palms to your face,
you will be mine forever.