I don't want to think about it.Stop this thinking
about the chill on my skin
after cold swells on this stinky
beach tonight.
I have touched cold skin four times.
There is nothing like it. Nothing
like the touch of windless death
against your warm finger.
A trick, you think.
Something flows below
that cold skin.
There's movement
and where there's movement,
there is an engine.
And what is the soul,
if not an engine?
