Human Skin
A bedside glass holds water for the night,
the liquid, clear and cold—a trapped transparency.
My little lamp shines out a secret light
that bares a colder outdor currency.
Now, rubbing on the window, comes the snow
to pat a furry paw against the pane.
And, if I let it in, it melts and grows
into a purring pool of wet again.
I drink my water from the glass and watch
the colder form that sticks against the house;
the candle gleams and holds its breath to catch
a draft inside, where ghosts have almost doused
the flame, while shivering from the frigid wind,
I sit in awe and shield my human skin.