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

at the window. “Jack?”

—the way he calls me. “Jack, why

is it so sudden—that we're cold?”

As I remove this pink disguise of skin

and reveal its cooler blue tint

from that scabbard—the weapon

that I keep in its sheath. Icicles

pierce my ears—snowflakes shake out

the squall of my hair—as I touch him—

but softly, brush his wrists—numb

them, by skating my fingers—

kiss burning lips—my cool comfort,

how my desire still, shortly after.

He shivers and pulls 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.”