There was a cold
A line of water across the chest risen
Orthograph you cherish, a hand her
Of doubt importance
Her imbroglio the winnowing of ever
An imbroglio, ever
she does repeatedly declare
to no cold end
Admonish wit, at wit's end, where "wit" is
The cold of which
her azul gaze impart a stuttered pool
Memoria address me here (green)
Her arm or name in French says "smooth"
A wine-dark seam inside the head, this name
The "my" head I admit, or consonantal glimmer
Or wet fields the vines or eucalyptus wood
Lift from, here
Whose cartilage did grief still bear?
Whose silent wound?
Who fortuitously was grave?
A trepidation honest
Whose declaration met silence?
Whose wall shored up became
Whose sympathetic concatenation? Whose picture
Who caressed "that tiger"?
Whose laugh at an airport called forth? Whose ground
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Comments about this poem (The Cold by Erin Mouré )
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