Always 8 Below

Fingers a bit numb, from the wasted day’s cold wind
Fits into his pockets, sends a message back to him

If one could learn compassion, where there was a lacking deep within
Scrutiny was missing, a followed sigh at the whipping trim

Solace in places warmer where the hallow cold could find a friend.

Blankness in the way he focused, far from the eyes, a minute away from expression
Cozy into security, by unreleased apparitions in the hand he held the others
If one could possibly readapt to her mysterious unbalanced need for suggestion
Or lose oneself in the whirlwind of empathy by having shared the damage
He was never lost. He could never find his way. He would never learn the lesson.

Kelly Curiel
November 21, 2002