(Poems) – metallic

And I am cold metal pressed against your skin in winter

when the snow takes your fingers and ears and nose

and the wolves and doves gather to eat their piece

 the sky is pale and full 

 the earth swallows the sound


And I am that metal again in summer 

when you lick it and find warm copper on your tongue 

a dead thing that tastes of life and pain 

rusting in the air it breathes 

finding that living is dying

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