Dead of winter

I'd love to think
it was dust shaken
from the wings
of angels and halos
of saints but it ain't,
these ghosts of lace
doily snow flakes
flittering about
like a plague
of albino locusts
fornicating free
into a whitening
paste masking grass,
asphalt and spirit .

Toes blue and stinging
under frayed sheets
as if wool socks were
traded for wasp nests.
By a dying candle
I post card sanctuaries ,
now derelict dreams ,
that it sucks here,
where the chill burrows
in crevices of bone
and who but maybe
Robert Frost knew
the fires of hell could
be so fucking cold.