January, Huddled

The light is empty of stitching,
of bright weather, bees not opening
from a hole in a tree.

That tongue has a mouth’s worth of teeth
and each one hangs with ice.

In winter
I am the cat with three eyelids,
each one unscrolled to veil
a different feeling.

What I mean is,
the gallery exhibits its own empty walls.

What used to be a voice blew under the door;
outside, one degree of temperature

is a lonely thing to feel.
It’s a small world, after all.