There is an invisible landscape
and I wonder if the cold will
strip my skin and make my
bones
chime together
funeral music
songs to dance to
in the dark.

I wonder if,
clothed in wool and draped in
scarves like melted paint, I will
imagine warmth, and
will my fingers not to curl up
and die.

Will I be able,
on the brightest days
to drink up enough sun to quench
my thirst and grow my
insides
vines and lacy flowers,
poison roots
photosynthesize then
hibernate
till light-
I may find solace in the cold
and never leave.