Black Warmth

 My fingers wind about
in their tasks
dried like hide laces.
Nimbly they tie another bud
into a corner cut bag.
The cold stiffens the stained fingers
hinders them in their effort
burns the throat and trachea
and prompts the convulsions of cough.
The red lungs inside vainly try
to flower on the outside
to leave me behind
spitting blood and dying in the snow.
Fear only knows its habits
counter-measures
and tries to warm itself
bleeding in a black warmth
back from the pipe.