Threnody for a Lover’s Foreign Touch.

Hey radiator

this is not a song for you

but for the simple swathe

of ragged cloth under

three thin blankets of warmth.

This is not to say your tin

man’s song does not swing,

or at night send vibes

along the notches of the spine,

but your Coltrane feel is unreal

and radiator it’s been cold

far too long.

And while sleep

is a gentler stranger, back

bent hovered above a saddle

of glowing rhythm,

no outlaw fire’s embers

thaw thick loneliness

as morning’s swaddled womb will -

& hey radiator this part

is for you, and I would lie

if I said I had melted like this before.