at the knife-edge
of freezing,
when even the rain
is starting to rain—
and where
even the shadows
will not follow
where you're walking—
the usual tingle
at the base
of your neck
feels less like
the shiver
you remember from before
and more like
a portent that,
despite your nonacceptance—
and to your
grim displeasure—
somewhere far
away from here,
even as we speak, you're
being prayed for.
