“Soon the cold would force them inside, so they clutched at lost summer.”
“In a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time then thaw and become audible so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer.”
“Summer seems so cold without you, winter is even colder.”
“Because they forgot and I remembered. They would be lost soon enough, and I would keep going. The best I could do was hold on to them after they forgot themselves.”
“on. I’m getting cold.’ Clutching the pluckers, I call her. ‘Right,”
“Poetry is a life-cherishing force. For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”