went for cold shower this morning, one knob twisted until i could bear it; so you seek the lurch in your throat, the one that cripples armies bound for moscow. think of mason jars, perched under the eaves & filled with every last thought you're waiting to ferment into something useful. i would've crossed the alps for you, on elephantback, were it not for the condition of my shoes. & then i wrenched my spirit out of permafrost & set in front of the hearth, & waited, & waited, until it bloomed again. still see frostbite along the petal edges, reminders of cold showers & cold winters.
