Layers
Jan 3 2010


An arctic high
dropped down,
and wouldn’t let go —
powder snow
clear and cold
eyelashes frozen.

We dress in layers —
cotton, fleece, wool
balaclava, or scarf ;
bank robbers and desperados
at large.

I like moving through the world this way,
building up layers
of protection,
muffled and buffered and cotton-balled.
The soft armour
that soaks up bumps,
makes me anonymous.
The pneumatic bubble
that covers up
the softer core,
blunts
the sudden fall
the sharpened tongue.

Except for the eyes
peering out
exposed,
tearing-up
in the bitter wind
the snow-blind brightness.

We acknowledge each other
passing by
with a nod, a grunt,
never sure
which one’s which;
hands jammed
deep in our pockets,
hunched against the cold.

Even at absolute zero
enough layers
and I could keep myself warm.
It’s the heat
I find murderous —
only so much
you can throw-off, strip down, expose,
until you’re bare-ass naked
and everybody knows.