Snow

the blood is red, thick, teaming with rationale

but it cannot relieve the dryness in my throat;

the summer heat makes me weary of all the pedestals

we made in the snow—i hold the torch we lit

to explore what was in these lines and sheets,

to read what someone carved in the table at the bar

but it made the snow melt into my insecure puddle

mixed with undeserving tears—a noxious cocktail

that makes me sick with each reluctant sip:

sometimes water is harder to take than wine.