When the cold clutters my bones with slow-motion, 
filling them like paragraphs of pain-staking cursive, 
I will speak, mumbling sonnets 
about love, warmth, beaches,
or abandonment issues that plague countries.  

I will soak in the morning as it 
closes my eyes with glassy ice balm, 
but coat my chapped mind 
in a revitalizing act!

I will feel temperatures so low 
that my teeth feel like popcorn kernels 
ready to POP. I will try to speak 
articulately to passing bums,
who, ironically, have no teeth at all.

I will hover over the roads 
like I am navigating 
in machines futuristic 
and terrain foreign, 
while constantly tuned to talk radio. 

When the world goes numb, 
truly polar, 
at least my words will 


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