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.

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