Ice wind whips the house eaves grinds dreams

Thinking of the animals outside–
their utter innocence,
fanged or otherwise

My bones turn into a sort of gas

Thinking of the animals outside

Freezing to death

The prisons listening too

Cage to cage, sounds of wind sharpening
beautiful shivs of icicles
that hang clear art glass

Just past their reach, mocking

A stone deep in a brain

A warm hand squeezes a stone
Body in a bunk tries to crush it
Prison shyness

A cat goes into a blizzard outside the window

A prisoner watches her perfection

His bones turn into a sort of gas

He tries to put all this expanding in a letter