White Fingers Scissoring a Love Poem into Snow

Dear Coworker, I refuse to write another poem where the moon glints like a hubcap
lost in a retention pond. My morning glass of milk casts a spell that keeps it perpetually
upright. It’s dazzling and empty. When I put my head down, the pines make a muffled
song of the wind. I substitute because syntax once mattered. Example A: The doors of
perception vs. the perception of doors. Example B: I haven’t forgotten your mouth—no
ordinary winter—your mouth, which gives fruit a gender. And your teeth, how they
collapse the skin of your daily apple—never green, never yellow—only the red an other
could love. And yet—yet I hesitate a taste. I am so very uninsured. The scaffolding of
your arms appears entirely accidental.