Under the dropping slab of the sky,
I question the stars. They may be suns
elsewhere, but here
they're stabbing ice. If I held them
as I often wish, they'd slice my chest.
This world is colder than I'd believe
if I hadn't been born.
At times I want to dissolve. If it can't
be loved or warmed, what good's a body?
Even curled into another,
its heart thumps sluggishly.