Winter

                                                      
I am a man on a couch made of marble
and I must describe the emptiness of stone
to explain the couch.

Though you stare, this story is illegible,
hard, desperate.

I sit alone, breaking on the white of these arms

I am a man, this couch is hard
and cold. For you
I must describe the chiseled edges
to explain the couch.

Though you reach, this fact is untouchable,
cruel, distant.

I sit alone, aching on the chipped creases

I am a man on a couch made of marble
and I must describe the meaning of the couch
to explain the marble.

Though you dream, this sleep is empty,
cold, deviant.

I am a couch beneath a man,
empty and distant and cold.