Slip Through Palms
The rote shivery wind is Winter's maid—
she breaks heart to own the season's floor;
via frost's degrees in my throat,
while my glean lancet's chills burn.
I tape her over my
skin; my fingers in
our stitches show—
her peel true.
Gloves are
off.
Copyright © Paige Hind | Year Posted 2023
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