The Cold/ / any, any thing


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?


When        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?


The         Stranger

was              cold.

Her               knife

cut     any    thing

to                 warm

Her                fire.


In the bright light of our burgled fire,

The Stranger

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


through                                                           cold

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.