Icicles are my fingers, stiffly projecting from my hands, wishing to gather under their frosty chins any sliver of warmth. For in winter’s womb is formed cruelty, and when she’s born devises ways to bite and slap and seize those unprotected. Havoc rattles as she plays, and here I stand huddled beneath heaps of cotton, yet still she slips through.
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