Heat's offence comes on

the way a blush can

further its pass—embarrassing,

through the skin. I pull away

from my surface—ever so

slightly. What strikes him—

is a stiff north wind, against

the surface of the window. “Jack?”

is the way he calls me. “Jack, why

is it now, that we're suddenly

so cold?”

As I remove the disguise of this

pink skin—reveal its cooler blue

tint from that scabbard, I keep 

in its sheath. Icicles pierce my ears—

nowflakes shake out the squall

of my hair—but as I touch him—

softly, brush his wrists—and numb

them, by running with my fingers—

kiss his burning lips—it's cool comfort,

the way my desire shortly stills.

He shivers and pulls that much

further, into the bed. And blanketed

as fear, raises to his chin—it's plain.

“I’m sorry,” I say—but I’m not. “Go

sleep and then forget. I never feel

heat that lasts more than a little while.”

I leave by way of the window,

so he can rest. I hope he’ll forget

the chill—as I go out and touch leaves—

rub my back along the grass—breathe

private latticework, upon the windows

and parked cars. It's some morning

later, when I see him. He lays his arm

around me—and asks, would I be good

with coming by—and could do it again?

“Not now,” I tell him. “I’m cold.”