It’s a glimpse of spring in January, gossip of daffodil, tulip embryos too eager to meet sun. The night has a thousand

eyes, and I learned in December how to undress, unashamed, in front of them; their pupils lingering on me into daylight like perfume on a left wrist.

Under snow’s weight, we swallow the rich, care not for the slow taste of sweetness, desire only salt and copper, fat and marrow—feral cure for winter.