Too many poems about the bloody weather. But when
it's like this, when the air flashes white with pain,
when the door of the truck is frozen shut, inoperable,
adamantly refusing to engage its many hidden bits,
the handle colder than a failed marriage, when
every part of the body draws in tight, like the
arcing back of a hunting cat, and the eyes scream
to shroud themselves in soft dark warmth, and the
place that requires your time is dead and too far
away, and you have no idea if you can keep going
like this, keep climbing the same mountain road with
no summit in sight. When it gets this bloody cold,
the sufferings are more than slight.
Adam Middleton-Watts is an oddball British expat writing from the flatlands of South Dakota. When he's not dissolving in the midst of a savage summer or fattening up for the next brutal winter, he's writing poems and stories on the backs of unpaid utility bills and drinking too much dark ale. He has had words printed in many a magazine, and can tell a bison from a handsaw.