The Cold will make you do any thing,
any, any thing to feel just a little warm.
The Cold has carried me to the bed of more than one stranger,
The Cold has raised my mother’s hand to throw at me a knife,
& it was The Cold which told prometheus to defy god and steal fire.
Sometimes I wonder: is there anything that we need in being cold?
we will beg, borrow or burn any thing.
Wood, chairs, bones- if freezing, what wouldn’t you feed to fire?
Would it be so bad to only ever be warm?
Who here has frost not confronted with its lonely, lonely knife?
Would it be that bad, really that bad, if winter were a stranger?
cut any thing
In the bright light of our burgled fire,
said to us: The Warm
will some day kill The Cold.
We did not believe any thing,
and took her knife.
Can the future be seen in a knife?
In a fire?
Is there any thing
than eulogizing cold
while some still cannot become warm?
like a warm
butter, we come, again, to the house of fire,
this time stranger,
& ready to do any, any thing.
Some day, our great grandchildren will meet us in the shadow of the fire,
and we will say, as if to a stranger:
cold will make you do any, any thing.