I hate Cold in its pleasure of headache

its bloodless escarpment

                                                 where sheets grasp skin

I hate its stealth

inhaled through sharp lace crystal

I hate Cold’s tactile pervasive insinuations

wrapped noose tight                          

relentless                        heavy

its weight impossible to decipher


I hate shoulder Cold in rejection

the frosting of social cake

chill of desertion

cruelty absolute

Celsius never imagined

beyond Saturn’s rings

or the liquefaction of nitrogen

civility    cracks

 into multiple separate cubes


I hate Cold out in itself

in a disregard of neglect

abandoned feeling

four chambers filled

with melt of slurry snow


cold, out cold in the seep of 

chilblained hope

     Copyright © 2007 Maggie Westland

     Conscious Ooze Poets