As Nights Are Growling

As nights are growling
in hunger for surrender,
we’re pushed huddling
through solstice into
permafrost dark,

where glycerine gives in
and tires groan on powdered roads,
where sterile lips crack when smiling
and tears never make it
to the ground,

where wolves and wicked drifters
play Pollock with blood
of the careless and a constant
crystal canvas.

The perimeter of attention shrinks
to this room, this fire, these embers,
these blankets, shoulders, limbs,
skin, shed of cover
to taunt the dead outside, to bask in
ember glow and each other's attention.

The warmth of jasmine tea
and mulled wine, a flinch from
a still cold hand,
contrast between chill bitten
earlobes and blush pumping cheeks,
intricate rasping of taste buds
across nerve clusters.

Heat
passed through two as one,
no line drawn between one breath
and another, heat sucked from radiating skin,
drawn by hungry teeth, torn by greedy
fingers dug into straining muscle.
Given just as easily,
pass it on, gain anew, two as one.

Through solstice into
permafrost, spinning a silk web room
to catalyse our furnace, to cling the
winter out, to play with patience.

All shall pass, wolves will tiptoe north,
and we will open this room,
open this clutching embrace,
to solid sun on bright firmament
once more.