The glass on the window    seems to be
solidifying    dirt and ice painting it
so that when the sun   grey and cold
with winter   comes flat against it
the crust   like the grime under fingernails
needs to be dug out   the air grey too
coming to wrap itself   around shoulders
around unleashed dogs   creeping in
to every bed   a ghost tangling sheets
when no body is there   not only glass
but the growing things   are turning
slowly to ice   the empty spaces within
expanding   cell walls cracking one
by one   freezerburn coming now
to shine the edges of things   but
look how beautiful   they are jacketed
in the thing which kills them


A poem by Teague Morris

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