A Poem for Morning

You must think of it
crystal blue-- the memory of thick
rope gash in morning light
pink sun skins the soft ear
laced to radiators fixed on floors
wet spots beneath steam heat
enters dreams to wake shivering
from the momentum of blood
it's nothing but thought coursing
through our cabinets for relief
a pill that hasn't been made
for a thought that keeps recurring
no cure the bitter cold creases
the steps are coated in ice
everything creaks moves slow
clotted deep in it now.