Sometimes, your mouth is an ice cap
of arctic gray. When you’re angry
I’ve felt the urge slide away—
the way a greyhound runs over land,
if only I could capture your anger
in my arms, but you are a victim
of your own trigger and the coldness
that lives in your mouth; a freeze I can’t
cross no matter how inviting
the tongue that often imitates
a home or even the heat of one
lone burning star.