Mackeral sky

Yes, and you made us think of God smoking a cigarette like a captain of industry, perched on the balcony rail loose-kneed over bare tracks in the snow. I was clinging with strange desperation to the thought of a long winter, a soft winter of pastels and lavender knits and long-sleeved low cut shirts that drape prettily and dark washed jeans and new slippers, where the appeal is vaguely in the warmth of blood which somehow keeps the cold baying at the door—

I’m writing this, by the way, because I just read something from when I was clearly very cold and was writing a panegyric to my heating elements:

Buzz, radiator. Sing, space heater.

An electric blanket is only a substitute for the warmth of flesh. One can be sure. Without lava for blood, you doesn’t stand a chance, Precious.

The walls leak cold like ice in a washcloth. The space under the closet (an inch) infuriates. A rhombus frame for a rectangle door flaps shut (not quite) in my dreams.

But then today it was sunny and cold, and I remembered what summer and spring are like, and the persimmons that will fall on the path and in the drive and the redbud blooms and the irises and later the wisteria and how I’ll unravel my hair and kick off my shoes and embrace again, to Ashley’s chagrin, a semi-wild state of grace.

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