Each time I pull the quilt over me
It’s like slipping within a question mark
That hangs over my bed
Prodding the false warmth
With which I sleep this winter.
But I know nothing of winter.
I see it only in the news clippings of cold waves
Or in the shivering of a mendicant
Pressed against my car’s window
Or in the vaporous breath of an illicit lover
Exhaled across my married face.
© Dan Husain
December 23, 2005