growing cold

you wake up
with wet fingers at 6
from the dreams
in a mix
of ghosts caught
in the act through frost
in window panes
and the frontmost
ache
moving fire
and ice
as slow waves across
your eyes
your
whole body
limb by limb
and the whole room
is seen again
in dawn's
soft
downy gloom.

it's all fine
all is
nice
but they leave you
wanting someone
else
and little dreams are
ugly lovers
to rip you apart at
the seams.