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Six Cold Poems on Six Cold Days
by Marcus Auler


The snowflakes falling on the tracks were like
your thrice-broken heart, falling
whiplashed by a cold wind
close to others but always alone
until at last contact with something warmer
an electrified rail
melted the crystalline superstructure
and exposed the dormant river.


The day I knew I'd lost you
we went skiing, you and me
and him.
The minus-four degree wind
did not pierce my chest;
my heart had already iced over.
You both skied down first, but I
slipped and fell.


After the snowball fight was over
they pounded him into the ground
until he gasped for air.
He never went camping again.

Years later they learned he really was gay after all.


The day I knew we were over,
was the coldest day of my year.
But the winter sun was so bright
it sliced me like a razor
it's true
that pain was something I needed
and probably did to myself.


It never snows in Los Angeles
except when it does
and you waste the entire yard
to make one lousy two-foot snowman.
He'll melt by Sunday,
and an 8-year-old will first
consider death.


The last time I saw him
we stood outside the station.
It was snowing so softly
we thought it must be ashes
from the fires that still burned
in the mountains to the north.

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