1: A poem, cold.

was the price high enough for you?
can you count your winnings on your stale breath
late in the morning, as you often are
sound asleep in these heavy hours?
will there be a rushing at your door
some midnight blue and solid
with years of sighs and frozen eyelashes
is this hand cold enough to touch you?
bled white from pinpricks, still icy still heavy
waiting to be given permission
trickling up from between frigid lips
frostbit blue and shivering in winter's grip

2: A poem, hot.

electric, she walks here and there
leaving footprints of fire in her wake
electric, her hair blazing like bonfires
cities being buried, going up in smoke
this night tastes like ashes in the making
recognition of the power that is hers
impassioned, we call out to her to save us
create us consume us condemn us revive us
impassioned, she calls the conflagration
triumphant, she walks a circuituous path
youth incarnate as we burn around her