We Dream of Storms and Our Bodies and Each Other
  JC Bouchard

It smarts: the kiss of wind. Body
absent, warmth dismissed—finger
sprouts from your mitt—to the sky:
there—there is the source of night.

We can see nothing more than
our belief in the dream—heads
mould pillows—our shapes retain.
A hole collects snow: fills the edge.

Morning happens—sin. Burns up
the fat of our faces, lulls back into
the day: snow returns to its phase.
We see each other only in our minds.

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