it's 12 degrees
and the marrow cools:

we catch  --
breaths hitched
 to a cataclysmic gait
a crooked pace:
all-damned 
while you wait

god's sticky magazines 
pages pregnant 
with guilt
regret
the ilk of resplendent idleness
of abandonment
in this blind-eye of a city, turned 
to rot, mitotic
never-ending 
a car crash of ashamed sex
but it's just too good 
to be any other way .