By Stephen Mead
Intimations of hypothermia sweet as condensed milk
thicken blood, a sort of peace,
this consciousness releasing stillness one with a chill
while envisioning bedding changed, bad dreams washed away
from linens, the sheets pulled up, cleansed crisp
beneath the chin, the comforter's padding,
pattern side folded down as a cuff,
downy bath upon your skin
with the protection of night tucked all around
to wipe blank the farmer's fear of soil slowly caked
to barren dust after so much toil
as if the whole world were suddenly salted
to match these tears - the only watering
after heat baked flakes starched as snow
drifted in with the ticking radium
to a final flood of winter everywhere
as blackening amber, the gaseous sun burns,
feeling frozen.
About Stephen Mead:
A resident of New York City, Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media artist and writer. Since the 1990s he's been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. In 2014, he began a webpage to gather various links to his published poetry in one place.