Day and night, vise-like,
bookends to whatever this is.

A return? Or stalled momentum.
Pieces of salt, like stars,

stud the black ice.
This year drawn out

to its breaking point–
a twist of the champagne cork–

anticipation is such
a terrible ache.

And this cold
cuts to the bone. Waiting

for a word, a sign,
breath suspended

in the frigid air,
and fingers gone numb, only

hurting when they touch
something warm–

a loss is insensible,
memory determines its cost.