Hair curling
curdling screams
that come, freely, out of my mouth
and rise into the air that gets taken,
rushed, and hurled upstream, far.
Til only my open mouth is left.
Dry. No noise. Wind in, wind out.
The water is tipped in ice
and the moon is shining warmth
on us all, like we’re rosy, not raw,
dew drops on a field; bribing us
not to feel the unending cold.
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