1: A poem, cold.

[alasanon]

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