Memory of a Winter Lover

Does he, when autumn zips the lining in his coat, still puff pretend cigarettes, blow smoke rings at the moon? And in mid-winter when angels shed their robes to dress a shivering earth, does he still fall back, stretching arms and legs, to find the perfect fit? And on those nights when Van Gogh wakes to paint crystal canvas, does he feel my hot breath steam from his cup of cider, and sipping, taste my lips?